Song to Say Goodbye
by ebunnixx
Summary: Teenlock! Eventual Johnlock! The boys meet in a locked psychiatric ward where they both become roommates after each attempting to take their lives. They both find a new reason to live from there. Trigger warning for sensitive matter - Anorexia. Suicide. Self harm.
1. Chapter 1

**A Song to Say Goodbye.**

**Chapter One. ******

I do not own Sherlock or any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work.

_I'm well aware of how it aches  
and you still won't let me in  
and now I'm breaking down your door  
to try and save your swollen face  
though I don't like you anymore  
you lying trying waste of space  
_

There was a time in his childhood and earlier teenage years when John Watson envisioned himself much further along in his life than this, a girlfriend he was madly in love with and shagging on a regular basis, cramming to get good grades on his A levels in order to get in to a good college and become a doctor; partying and getting up to the usual mischief every seventeen year old did. But as far as life went, things didn't always go to plan and he had found himself here; alive.

Trapped in a room that was blindingly white and bare minimalistic John stared up at the mind dulling ceiling and squinted his eyes against the light, a dull ache lancing between the crook of his elbow and the back of his head. To be honest John was surprised they had even allowed him the IV line that was linked to the plastic cannula and bag of fluids. But then again, his wrists and ankles were strapped down to the cushiony bed. It wasn't like he could make a second attempt on his life outside of swallowing his own tongue. A sharp pang of pain shot through his head again, causing him to wince harshly.

John didn't know how long it had been since his father had knocked him on the back of the head, dropping him rapidly to the ground against his throes of struggle against the harried paramedics that had been struggling to restrain him. He had been fuming when his father had walked in to his bedroom, home three hours earlier then intended by John who had planned his suicide down to the T that night.

His father had been in a rage when he walked in to find John on the carpet beside his bed, half unconscious from the overdose already, forgotten words dying on his lips as he dropped down to his knees and took John into his arms and yelled at him for what he had done, what he had taken and how much. This had simply spurred John back from the brink, desperate to succeed he had pushed his dad off and stumbled away to find somewhere isolated but he had been followed, his dad already on the phone to 999. He'd made a lousy attempt to get the phone away but the medication was taking hold.

By the time the paramedics had arrived John was struggling not to throw up, his dad wasn't allowing him to go asleep and was slapping his cheek each time his eyelids fluttered closed against his pale cheeks. He had slurred to be left alone, he didn't want to live anymore; he thought he had even cried then as he swung out at the medics and struggled against them until his father had unceremoniously clocked him on the back of the head. It was all hazy from there.

John had woken up in the ICU strapped to heart rate monitors, a tube down his throat and numerous IV lines. His father was slumped asleep in a chair to his right and a nurse was busy writing notes at the head of his bed, he struggled against the breathing tube until another nurse had appeared with a syringe that made everything black until he had opened his eyes here.

Footsteps drew his head to the right, rolling his neck to watch the door open and greet a pair of black trousers and a white coat. 'Good to see you awake and coherent John, my name is Doctor Lestrade or Greg if you prefer. I will be the leader of your team during your stay with us here on the unit I am a psychiatrist.' The doctor- Greg pulled up a chair and sat down beside John with a clip board and pen in his hands smiling through an aged face topped with salt and pepper hair trimmed close.

'Where am I?' John croaked, throat abused from the tracheal tube.

'You are in a locked psychiatric ward in Leeds for young juveniles like yourself in need of some help. And we are here to help you, as long as you work with us and let it happen; we all want to see you walk out of here again.' John smirked, he was eighteen in six months and if he wasn't out of here by then he could at least walk out of his own will. Not that he would let it last that long, he didn't want to be alive and they were not going to be able to change that perception anytime soon. 'What you tried to do was a desperate cry for help John and you nearly got away with it.'

'I wanted to get away with it, that was the whole idea of it and I would have if my dad didn't come back when he wasn't supposed to.' He snapped back. 'I don't need any of your bullshit help and I want to go home.'

'You won't be going home anytime soon John, you attempted to take your own life and from what I just heard you say than- you plan on trying again. We can't let you go.' John laughed at him. 'I want to start a transitioning period for you, get you out of the restraints and make sure you don't try and harm yourself or any of the nurses over the next twenty-four hours before we move you to another room and integrate you into the program. After that you can meet your team and we can move on from there with a care plan and work out what we can do to help you from there. How does that sound John?'

The idea of getting out of this room and the restraints sounded like heaven to John's ears, he nodded reluctantly. If push came to shove he could lie, pretend he was getting better and do all the pleasing things they wanted in order to get home quickly and then he could try again.

'Alright then,' Greg leaned over John's ankles and released the Velcro straps doing the same with his wrists. 'Sit up slowly, you have been laying down for a while now and your blood pressure is still low. You will be on BD observations until it stabilises, along with twice daily bloods.'

'Why?' John was thankful to be sitting up, he hadn't noticed the throb in his back or stomach before when he was lying down but now they were making themselves known.

'The overdose you took did some damage, serious damage John. Your stomach was pumped on arrival but the medication had been in your system some time by then and several of your organs were affected including your kidneys, liver and heart. You will be taken to the medical ward for dialysis on your kidneys three times a week, the hope is that will repair the damage and avoid the need for a transplant. You will also have a few run of the mill tests on your heart for maintenance of your treatment plan.' Greg dragged a hand through his hair and looked hard at John who simply stared back blankly, showing how little he cared with the vacant expression in his eyes. 'Well a nurse will be in to take your observations shortly, along with lunch. I will come and see you again tomorrow morning for transition.' He extended a hand; John took it reluctantly and shook it.

Over the next twenty four hours John paced the room and acted on his best behaviour. He ate sparse amounts of plain food, swallowed medication when he was meant to and allowed the nurses to do what they pleased with him. It wasn't long before he woke from a sedated sleep and looked up in to the eyes of the morning shift arriving with his bland breakfast. Apparently his stomach was too damaged to accept anything to heavy right now, he brought most of it back up anyway.

Sweaty head hanging over the toilet bowl John groaned and pushed away from the cool porcelain and leaned against the tile with a sigh. He hadn't expected to survive, so he hadn't looked up the consequences if he did. It only made him want to be dead even more amongst the suffering.

'Are you in here John?' Greg's voice carried through the bathroom, alarmed.

'Bathroom.' He mumbled back, making no move to get up or flush down the sickly smell of his vomit. Blood streaked the bowl and tainted his pale lips, another side effect of the OD having damaged his stomach lining and oesophagus. Greg came in with a plastic cup of ice cubes and a spoon which he handed over to him.

They sat in silence for a moment before Greg spoke. 'We have a room ready for you on the ward, it is shared with another male two years younger than you but I am sure you won't have a problem.' John just nodded; he didn't have the energy to reply. He just wanted to go home he didn't care who he had to deal with to lie his way out of here. 'We have a wheelchair now if you are ready to go up?' He just nodded again and stood up shakily and shuffled in to the outer room where a nurse stood waiting with the chair.

Sinking down John allowed the IV line to be reattached and for himself to be wheeled towards an elevator where an orderly joined them, the three staff flanking John so he felt like a criminal. It was a quiet short ride to the unit, he dozed lightly in the lift but a hand on his shoulder woke him up when they had arrived.

'John Watson this will be your new room for the next few months, and this is Sherlock Holmes your new roommate for the rest of your stay.' John looked up and met the icy blue eyes of a very pale teenage boy with incredibly curly hair that sat atop sharp cheekbones one of which was marred with tape holding down a nasal gastric tube. The boy didn't say a word; he left angel bow lips closed in disdain before turning away and returning to the book held in bony fingers.

As the wheelchair was pushed past Sherlock's bed he couldn't help but stare, the boy was incredibly thin which explained the tube down his nose, and incredibly startling to look at. That was when John noticed the bandages around the younger man's wrists and he quickly looked away feeling guilty like he had seen something he shouldn't have.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dull_. The first thing that came to mind as Greg Lestrade wheeled in a despondent male, seventeen; almost eighteen with vacant blue eyes and sandy blonde hair that was in need of a wash. Suicide attempt, deliberate overdose- if the obvious oedema around the boy's; John Watson's face and bare ankles was anything to go on. Just another stupid teenager not prepared for the worlds woes.

Sherlock didn't respond to the introduction or the boys sweeping gaze over his own face, the lingering stare on the damned tube coming out of his nose or the guilty crinkle around tired eyes before they sharply looked away from his own bandaged wrists. Returning to the worn paperback novel in his hands, he tuned out the noises behind the curtain drawn around the other bed and sighed deeply. He didn't need to be here.

Not with all these other fundamentally messed up teenagers. But this was Mycroft's way of teaching him a lesson, making sure that he knew if he was going to act average he would be treated the same way. So now he was drowning in a fish tank of goldfish and nothing he seemed to be doing was getting him anywhere closer to getting out. He suspected Mycroft had played a role in that, the way Lestrade seemed to dance around his declarations of mental clarity. He had most likely been informed that this was Sherlock's mantra, the same thing he had used to dance over the toes of many psychiatrists for the past year and avoid just this situation.

Lestrade wasn't taking any of it.

Then there was the tube. The damned thing rubbed against the back of his throat causing it to be red raw and the tape holding it to his cheek itched and pulled on his sensitive alabaster skin. It was the sixth nasal gastric tube in two weeks, Sherlock had stopped pulling them out after he had been placed on 1:1 surveillance and then when that hadn't worked he had been strapped down his bed while the noxious formula was pumped in to his body. He had learnt to oblige them quickly after that, realising he knew how to tinker with the machine pumping the formula, drawing it to a crawl. To avoid suspicion from the nurses he would take regular bathroom breaks and empty most of it down the sink.

Their obnoxious diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa had made him scoff and laugh in their faces; he didn't care how much he weighed or what he ate or anything to do with calories. He simply didn't have any interest in food and most of the time couldn't stand the texture or feeling of digestion. It made him sluggish and slowed him down.

Plus; it worked against his system and the drugs he was injecting.

Sherlock bounced between solutions; Heroin, Morphine or Cocaine.

It all depended what he needed at the time, his mind to speed up or slow down. If he needed to finally sleep or just zone out from the world for a while. But he had blown it this time, mixed the wrong solution whilst in the wrong mind frame. Had allowed too many emotions to come through at the wrong time.

'Sherlock?' He snapped his gaze up, blinking in confusion. Lestrade was standing with his hands in his pockets look down at him in concern. 'You with me now?'

'What do you want Lestrade?' Sherlock sniped, looking back down at the book again. He hadn't taken any of the paragraphs in. 'I thought we had established I have no need to talk to you unless it is to discuss discharge.'

Greg huffed out a laugh in response. 'And I told you, until you start talking- for real- that isn't going to be an option. Plus the nurses informed me you still haven't had anything but water and black coffee. You're not going anywhere till you gain some weight and start eating again, you know how this works; we've discussed it all already.'

Rolling his eyes Sherlock put the book aside and stood up. 'I told you, I made a mistake. Plain and simple, a miscalculation on my behalf that I fully own up to. There is no reason for me to be here, I have detoxed completely and am showing no signs of wanting to use again. Let. Me. Go.' Sherlock enunciated each word as he got up in Lestrade's face, sneering the last word.

Staring in to Lestrade's eyes Sherlock didn't back down until the doctor stepped away with a sigh and a shake of his head. 'That bullshit right there-.' He motioned towards Sherlock. 'Is the exact reason you aren't going anywhere Sherlock. Not everything is clinical, the way you talk about things…' He shook his head. 'Until you realise this is serious, and that you have an actual problem- you are just going to end up in an endless cycle of self-destruction and you will be in and out of this place like a revolving door. Now you might not think much of me as a person, or a doctor but I am decent man and pretty good at what I do and I don't want to see someone as bright and young as yourself end up that way.' Lestrade turned away from him. 'So if I was you, I'd want to start talking and soon.'

A little shell shocked, Sherlock stood there for a few minutes after the door had closed before turning back to his bed and slumping down in a huff of annoyance. He was going to make Mycroft pay for this.

'Seems like a nice enough bloke.' Sherlock looked at the curtain dividing the beds, crinkling his brow at the intrusion of his thought. He had no intentions of making conversation with the broken youth next to him. 'Any chance you know another way out of here, something tells me word play isn't going to be enough.' The words were light, playful despite the obvious exhaustion and rasp of someone who had been on a ventilator.

'Desperate to get out and swallow another bottle of generic pain relief are we?' Sherlock shot back, baritone cold and harsh. He wanted to make sure John Watson didn't want a thing to do with him. He thought for a moment he had gotten the point across, before he heard a sharp intake of breath follow a hollow laugh.

'You saw through me that quickly huh?' Another empty laugh, Sherlock could hear bitter undertones. Rolling his eyes he stood up and pushed aside the curtains, he was a little shocked to see John crying; it caught him off guard momentarily. Emotions were obviously something he hadn't learnt to deal with growing up in the Holmes household. Crying had been particularly frowned up once he had six years old.

'I'd say crying won't solve anything but you never know, I am however the wrong person to cry in front of. You did this to yourself, just because you didn't intend to survive doesn't mean you deserve sympathy because now you want to die even more then you did before downing all those tablets.' The boy sat up straighter and wiped away his tears, sniffling and eyes wide as he looked up at Sherlock towering over him. 'There is no other way out of here, I have looked and trust me; nobody wants out of this place more than myself. And no; not to kill myself. Stop snivelling and accept your fate, it's easier that way.' Sherlock turned away, sat down sharply on his bed before lifting his legs up and rolling on to his side away from John.

Reaching over he opened the cover to the display monitor of the feeding pump and turned it off. He listened to the sound of John sniffling for a moment before allowing himself to drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_If I could tear you from the ceiling  
I know the best have tried  
I'd fill your every breath with meaning  
And find the place we both could hide _

John lay on the bed stunned; listening to his forced upon new roommate take apart the doctor, before being equally torn up himself in return. It seemed like a familiar vocabulary rodeo they had often, he wondered how long the younger boy- _Sherlock_ he reminded himself had been here for. When they were alone again, John got up the nerve and courage to speak to the slightly intimidating boy behind the curtain.

'Seems like a nice enough bloke.' His voice was still gravelly and unused. There was no response from the other side of the room. 'Any chance you know another way out of here, sounds like word play isn't going to be enough.' He kept the words light and playful; despite the lingering bloom of hope behind his sternum that fluttered. The kid obviously didn't want to be here; maybe he had found another way out already. Bitter tears fell down his cheeks.

'Desperate to get out and swallow another bottle of generic pain relief are we?' The words were harsh, the deep voice belying no emotion. John was slightly taken aback by the abrasiveness, but then he remembered where they were and didn't hold it against the other kid. John let out a hollow laugh in response.

'Saw through me that quickly huh?' John laughed again, still a little bitter as another tear slipped unbidden down his cheeks, why was he crying? He jumped suddenly when the curtain snapped back, a pale bony hand against it.

'I'd say crying won't solve anything but you never know, I am however the wrong person to cry in front of. You did this to yourself, just because you didn't intend to survive doesn't mean you deserve sympathy because now you want to die even more then you did before downing all those tablets.'

He sniffled and looked up at the towering youth, eyes wide in shock as he sat up a little straighter. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. 'There is no other way out of here, I have looked and trust me; nobody wants out of this place more than myself. And no; not to kill myself. Stop snivelling and accept your fate, it's easier that way.' With that Sherlock turned away from him almost dramatically and laid down on the bed, back to John before he fiddled with the machine feeding something colourless through his nose and going silent.

Could have at least pulled the curtain back in place, arrogant git; John thought as he continued to sniffle a little noisily. The room was cold, and almost as white and blinding as the other room had been. The only real difference was the fact that he had a desk and a chair now, beside the bed. A small television was attached to the wall but there didn't seem to be any sort of remote to turn it on, he wished there were. The silence was bothering him, the inactivity drilling through his brain like a jackhammer with no intentions to stop digging away until he truly went insane.

What was he meant to do? He didn't want to think about anything right now, didn't want to focus on the reason he was here; it was the last thing on his mind. John just wanted out and as far away from this as possible.

Looking down at his arm, John removed the IV he was still attached to and swung his legs around, quiet as not to wake the rooms other occupant up. The brief look he had gotten at Sherlock told him that he didn't sleep enough; his striking blue eyes had been ringed with dark circles. Casting one last look around the bland room, John stood up and swayed nauseatingly on the spot as all the blood in his body dropped suddenly to his feet. Blinking through the matted black that swam against his vision John took a few steady breaths before heading for what looked like a bathroom door.

Since arriving at the hospital he hadn't had a chance to use a bathroom unattended, there had always been someone hovering outside the door, mostly his dad, but he was looking forward to the chance of a peaceful shower all on his own without any prying eyes or constant questions. He was relieved when he found the door unlocked and a collection of fresh towels and small pile of toiletries greeting him on a basin. The bathroom was basic, toilet, basin and a showerhead attached to the wall, but right now it was heaven to John's eyes.

Stripping off quickly he took a moment to turn back and flick the lock on the door, he then stood for a moment and studied his body. What had once been a well-toned; rugby player's physique was now a little lax with muscle loss and wastage. There was a shocking array of mottled and tangled scar tissue sitting across his right shoulder, followed by intermittent keloid scars running up and down the arm. Lifting the limb for closer inspection he noticed the way it shook, the tremor running through his fingers as he clenched it in to a tight fist.

After a moment he let it drop down and studied the mirror, he wondered how much force it would take to smash the glass. He had never fancied the thought of cutting his wrists, he had seen and witnessed his fair share of blood and pain already so he hadn't even considered that an option. But now faced with no way out… he pulled back his clenched fist but stopped.

He stared back at his reflection, noted the emptiness in his puffy red eyes, how closed off they were now compared to how alive they had been only six months ago. Sagging against the basin he took a deep, stabilising breath and turned towards the shower.

When he re-emerged from the bathroom, still in the same gown he'd been in since arriving, he found himself face to face with Sherlock. Stumbling back against the bathroom door he opened his mouth to apologise but thought against it. They just stared at each other.

'The bathroom mirror is smash proof; it's specially designed not to shatter. Made for jail houses, public bathrooms and apparently psych wards.' John blinked at him owlishly, how had he known? 'You were in there for a long time without the shower or a faucet turning on; obviously you were thinking about the best way to strike the mirror to make it break.'

John swallowed and nodded. 'Yeah… Wow, that's incredible! How do you do that?' John found himself asking, tone surprised by the knowing look in Sherlock's eyes.

'Same way I know you wouldn't have done it, because you don't enjoy the idea of all the blood. You already know how it feels to bleed out, which is why you chose to take medication over a more traditional male outlet of suicide like a gun.' Sherlock turned away and sat at his own desk, John noticed he was wearing a pair of baggy track pants and a very loose ill-fitting t-shirt that almost fell over his shoulder. _He was scary thin. _But John still stood transfixed in wonder.

'Seriously how did you do that?' John asked breathless, eyebrows quirking in amazement.

'What?' Sherlock looked up at him through a mess of curls and sharp cheekbones, eyes hesitant and closed off; like he expected John to yell at him or shout abuse.

'That was amazing.' John swallowed; Sherlock looked like a small rabbit that had been caught in the headlights as he stared back. 'What you did just then, the way you seemed to just know those things. It's amazing.' They were both silent for a moment, John didn't know what he was thinking. Moments ago the boy had alienated him rudely and shut down his attempt at conversation and now he had simply blown John away with his insight.

'Most people don't see it that way.' John laughed and shook his head. _When was the last time he had actually laughed like that?_ 'They usually punch me in the face, or call me names of some nature for offending them or outing a secret they were trying to hide.'

'I suddenly feel very sorry for Dr Lestrade.' It was Sherlock's turn to laugh now, a small smile parting his pale lips and enunciating the cupids bow there. Why was John paying this much attention to a male? He shook his head.

'You have no idea.' Sherlock responded.

'We haven't introduced ourselves properly, I'm John Watson.' He held out his left hand, the one without the damaging tremor that always reminded him of everything wrong in a way the constant pain from his shoulder couldn't.

The tall gangly teenager with pale skin and unruly curls reached out his own elegant hand and wrapped cold fingers around John's in a shake. 'Sherlock Holmes.'


	4. Meds

**Meds**

_How it mattered to us, how it mattered to me  
And the consequences  
I was confused by the birds and the bees  
Forgetting if I meant it_

Of all the reactions Sherlock had been expecting from John, amazement was definitely not one of them. He had expected anger and offense over his words, perhaps a right hook to the face and a bloody nose, but not amazement. He had found himself drawn in by John after that, noticing how he looked so normal when he laughed and let it crinkle the sides of his eyes and mouth with the noise, but at the same time how almost stiff it was; like his facial muscles weren't quiet used to the movement. He wondered how long it had been since somebody had been able to make John laugh freely like that.

These thoughts were a welcome break from the melancholy of his brain slowly tearing itself apart. So he had laughed with John, shook his hand and introduced himself to the older teenager and spent the rest of the morning talking quietly. He noticed the way John looked at him, the slight crinkle of concern in his eyes whenever the shoulder of his t-shirt slipped from his protruding shoulder, exposing a long line of white collarbone and sternum. Or how his lips quirked upwards when Sherlock lost himself slightly in a rant about the staff, and he let his hands move animatedly in response to his words. Most of all Sherlock noticed how enraptured John was by his deductions.

It was a strange feeling, to have someone other than his brother pay attention to his biting words and relentless truths about people. Sherlock enjoyed having someone he was able to be open around without facing the mirth and scorn that usually came with them. It was easy to fall in to the gentle flow of conversation.

For a moment they both seemed to forget that they were roommates in a locked psychiatric ward, until the door opened and an orderly stepped in announcing it was time to move down to the cafeteria for lunch. Sherlock was aware of the sudden dawn on realisation on John's face, the way it almost closed off with the orderlies entrance as he swallowed and nodded in response, standing up to step away from Sherlock almost self-consciously.

'I would ask if you could warn me about what I am about to walk in to, but I have a feeling you don't often go down to the cafeteria.' John nervously pointed towards the tube. Sherlock raised a hand to touch it, suddenly the one feeling self-conscious. 'Sorry.' John muttered eyes averted from him.

'No it's fine.' Sherlock stood up and walked towards the machine, if only just to have something to do with himself other than focus on how awkward it had suddenly become. He expertly unattached the tube and stepped away, relishing the freedom from the pole. He would deal with the backlash later. 'I often go down, regardless.' He moved towards the door and John followed him. 'The cafeteria is mixed in with the adult patients; it's also where the courtyard is. Some of the older patients allow me a cigarette. There's one man, he trades me cigarettes for my meals.'

John laughed behind him as they made their way towards a locked door that led to a staircase. 'It's a good deal.' Sherlock said. John was sticking close to him, suddenly looking very nervous as he cast his eyes around. He realised this was the first time John had been out of the shared room, they were surrounded by a motley crew of boys and girls their age as they all milled around to head up to the cafeteria. It was easy to tell from John's stance that he was uncomfortable, obvious he felt very much out of place. It was radiating off him in waves, in the form of tight eyes and stiff shoulders. His fists were clenched and his right hand was quivering with an intermittent tremor.

Out of character Sherlock stepped closer to him. 'The boy with the very blonde hair and nose ring, he's well known here. He comes in frequently after forgetting to take his medication and suffering a psychotic break. He has very obvious feeling for one of the female patients, the pale one with auburn hair in a bun and meticulous makeup.' Sherlock was leaning in close to John, to whisper and he could smell sandalwood and the off tang of stomach bile. 'What he doesn't know though is she prefers women, and has been sneaking in to another room late at night for a little fun between checks.'

With a click the doors opened and everyone filed through, ascending the stairs. Sherlock was almost too exhausted to keep lifting his heavy feet up every stair, but the craving for nicotine kept his shaking limbs going as John stumbled up beside him. He looked over at his roommate, a bit alarmed at how he was panting and the drops of sweat that beaded on his smooth forehead. 'Are you okay?' He found himself asking before he could think, placing a cold hand on John's tense elbow, stopping him. The others just pushed by them, to intent on getting to lunch to care.

'Yeah, yeah just a little tired I guess. Haven't been up and about for a while.' John panted beside him, Sherlock watched him absently reach a hand up to his left shoulder and rub. Lifting his own hand he wrapped two bony fingers around John's wrist and felt his pulse, it was racing and irregular.

Letting the arm drop he stood back, sighing. 'We could have taken the elevator; I didn't know your heart had been damaged.' Sherlock said, looking down.

'Nah, its fine.' John shook off his concern and started up the stairs again, slowly. Sherlock watched him for a moment, rolling his eyes and following him up. The noise hit before the smell and he almost recoiled against the onslaught of sensory overload. John looked back at him as he faltered at the door, hand against the wall for support as he adjusted to the noise. 'Alright?' He asked.

He simply nodded.

As soon as they were over the threshold Sherlock's stomach rolled, he headed for the trolley with John at his heel and removed his tray before turning to look around for Jason. Finding him sitting in his usual place at the back of the room he walked towards the overweight elderly man, placed his carbohydrate heavy tray down on the table and waited to accept the four cigarettes he was always greeted with. Accepting the trade without a word and a tight smile he turned and stalked off, John stood by the food trolley looking lost as he held his own tray before spotting Sherlock and heading over.

Sherlock walked over to the long wooden benches that stored the coffee and tea and poured a cup of black coffee while he waited for John to catch up and pour himself a cup before they silently made their way to a table outside.

'Do you get hungry?' John asked as Sherlock reached under the table for his hidden lighter before lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. In surprise he looked up at John, who was slowly starting in on his simple meal of custard and a sandwich, which he didn't look to enthusiastic about.

'Not really, it's just transport after all. I have complete control over it.' John snorted. Sherlock looked up at him in amusement, an eyebrow raised.

'Sorry I didn't mean to be rude it's just- you make yourself sound like a robot or something.' This time Sherlock snorted.

'You could say that.' Sherlock laughed, pulling on the cigarette. He looked behind John and tensed up automatically as he saw who was walking towards them.

'Did the skeleton make a friend?' John jumped at the loud words as Anderson stepped up beside the table and leaned down towards Sherlock with a sadistic sneer. He didn't even look at John as he reached over and took the lit cigarette from Sherlock's hand and put it in his own mouth.

Leaning back with a resigned sigh Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'What do you want Anderson, come to dazzle my mind with your lack of brain cells again?' The older boy tensed up, leaning his face closer to Sherlock's and sneering. John was staring blankly at them both, sandwich forgotten in his hand as his eyes darted between them both in clear confusion at what was happening.

Anderson leaned in closer, mouth pausing by Sherlock's ear as he whispered; 'looks like our little late night mingles will have to change locations. Don't think a body guard changes anything, we all know it's all your good for. After all, why would you be here?' Anderson stepped back and walked away as Sherlock clutched white knuckled at the table and John wrinkled his nose at him in question.

'Everything okay?' John had put his sandwich down.

'It's fine.' Sherlock lit another smoke and looked away.

I hope everything is liking it so far :) let me know in the comments below or leave me kudos to prompt updates. I have a few chapters ready if I stop picking at them. I'm not following canon typical character traits, so I hope you don't mind bullying Anderson! Also quick question for any Brits reading this! Do you call it high school or is it College? And its University for after that yeah? Forgive an Aussie haha.


	5. Days Before You Came

**Days Before You Came **

_Days before you came  
Counting breaths inside me  
Even crack cocaine  
Couldn't start to hide me  
Won't you join me now  
Baby's looking torn and frayed  
Join the masquerade  
Join the masquerade  
Won't you join me now  
Baby's looking to get laid_

A week had passed and they fell in to an easy routine. John had struggled in the beginning, dealing with the checks every other hour even through the night with a torchlight shone in his eyes, the doling out of medication he didn't even know he had been started on and the trips to and from the dialysis unit in the hospital. He was accustomed to moving to and from the second floor with Sherlock, usually eating his lunch in silence while Sherlock chain smoked his cigarettes and drank cup after cup of bitter black coffee. Occasionally they spoke, or John had his new friend tell him about the other patients that milled around the courtyard in small groups; sharing his deductions on them.

Neither boy seemed to be making any leeway in their therapy; private or group. Though Sherlock seemed to get in trouble with Lestrade and the orderlies quiet often. He had been caught twice messing with the feeding pump and tube, or coming out of rooms he wasn't supposed to be in or in the halls at night. John had woken up twice already through the night to see his roommate gone. He often wondered where he was going, but he didn't feel like they had become friends enough yet to risk asking.

The older boy- Anderson, Sherlock had said his name continued to bully Sherlock when nobody else was around. John didn't know how much more he thought he could keep quiet about, he was so close to smacking the idiot out if he said something nasty to Sherlock again. What he didn't understand is how Sherlock just sat there and took it, he really didn't seem like the person to stand back and take something like that. But John held his tongue still. He wished he could do what Sherlock did and deduce things, but his mind just spun with possibilities he couldn't tie down.

A knock on the door made both boys look up; they were playing a game of cards. An orderly stuck his head in and motioned to John to follow him. Confused he got up; slipped his feet in to the pair of slippers his dad had brought him in and followed the orderly out. He had been so relieved when his dad had come by with clean clothes and his toiletries; he had relished slipping in to a comfortable pair of track pants and a well-worn t-shirt and woollen jumper.

The visit had been uncomfortable; his dad had sat across from him in the visitor's room awkwardly not knowing what to say to him, it had been the same on the medical ward. Neither of them knew how to approach this. John still hadn't come clean about why he had done it, he stubbornly felt like it should all be obvious and he wanted his dad to realise why on his own. So his lips had been sealed on the subject.

He padded down the long hallway behind the orderly before stepping in to a small office where another older man sat in a white coat with a folder open in front of him, images of an ultrasound spread out in front of him. The man stood up as they entered. 'I'm Dr Jay Reynolds, you haven't met me yet but I am the cardiologist that has been working on your case since you came in to the emergency room two weeks ago.' John shook his hand, had it really been two weeks already?

'A few days ago you had a scan of your heart, to try and pinpoint the reason it's remained slightly irregular.' John nodded as he sat down across from the doctor. 'We found a small discrepancy in one of the valves that opens and closes as it pumps blood to the body, it's called premature atrial contractions. Luckily it's not dangerous, but we will keep an eye on things- regular ECG's and blood tests to make sure the heart is showing no further signs of damage or shutting down. How have you been coping with the symptoms?'

'Alright I guess, get a bit out of breath and dizzy but the nurses said my blood pressure is still on the low side so I guess that's why.' John shrugged non-committedly. He wasn't that concerned.

'We can keep an eye on that too, there's medication we can put you on if your blood pressure remains too low. Do you have any questions?' John shook his head mutely. 'Very well, the orderly can you take you back to your room then.'

By the time John got back to his room it was empty, Sherlock had gone off somewhere again. He had laid back on the bed and settled in with a book he had borrowed from Sherlock when Lestrade walked in. 'Think we could have a talk?' He sat down opposite John at the desk chair, elbows resting on his knees. 'How are you settling in?'

'Okay I guess, I still want to go home though.' Lestrade laughed. 'The food is terrible, the groups drive me insane and I don't know how we are expected to sleep with a light flashed in my eyes every hour.'

'I understand it's a lot to get used to, but you need to remember it's for your own safety and try and help you get better.' John opened his mouth to protest but Greg held up his hand to stop him, he closed his mouth grudgingly. 'Let me guess, I'm not sick and I don't need to get better right?'

'Took the words right out of my mouth.' John snapped. He wasn't in the mood for this, he wasn't meant to be here, it had never meant to play out like this. Sure he had settled in to a routine but the thoughts hadn't ended, the depression hadn't gone away and he hadn't stopped wanting to die just because someone was looking in on him every hour of the day. 'Why are we doing this again?'

'Because I had hoped maybe you had rethought your answer by now.' Lestrade answered easily.

'I haven't. I don't know what I'm meant to say, that the pills have taken away the thoughts? That group therapy doesn't make me regret surviving? That I'm glad I survived? Because I'm not, and every night I go to bed, I hope to god something stops and I don't wake up. And just then, before you came in I had my last hope dashed.' John growled, hands bunched up in the sheets in fists, knuckles straining against his skin.

Lestrade sat back and folded his arms against his chest. 'That's exactly what I want to hear John, all of that. All the anger and frustration, I want you to get it all out and tell me how you're feeling. What did you mean, your last hope dashed? Explain that to me.' He asked genuine care in his aged eyes.

Releasing the sheets from his death grip John sighed, looking away. 'I just saw the cardiologist.' He swallowed, was he ready to admit this out loud? He pushed on. 'Every night I pray my heart will stop, the way it seems to struggle to beat gave me hope that one day I won't wake up or I'll push it just that bit too far and it'll stop and that will be it…' He met Lestrade's eyes. 'I'll finally die.' There, he'd said it all out loud.

'And the cardiologist told you there was no risk of that happening didn't he?' John just nodded despondently, shocked to feel tears slipping down his cheeks. He wiped at them roughly. 'This is good, now we are getting somewhere John; you want to talk a bit more about it?' He let his shoulders sag, got a chuckle from the doctor in response. 'It's not meant to be easy John.'

Crossing his legs in front of him John picked at a loose thread in the blanket. 'I want my dad to understand why without me telling him or having to explain it. It frustrates me that he doesn't get it, that he dances around everything. He won't even acknowledge the fact that I still don't want to be alive, he thinks he did me some great deed by saving my life, that I just made a foolish hormone induced mistake.' By the time he'd finished talking there was a long strand of thread loose that he could wrap around his finger.

Greg shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. 'Is your dad part of the reason you tried to kill yourself?' John's head shot up caught off guard by the question.

'No. I don't want to talk about that right now, change of subject or I'm done.' He levelled a steely gaze on Lestrade, making sure he realised he meant it.

'John…. You can't evade the why forever.' John went to open his mouth in response when the door shot open and Sherlock stalked in with wild eyes and breathing heavy like he'd run a marathon. John noticed the shorter strands of his hair were matted against his forehead with sweat. He stood up quickly and approached his younger friend, but Greg put out a hand to stop him.

'Sherlock-.' John said, confused before Lestrade shook his head at him and walked forward. John watched as Sherlock took them in with a shocked expression, his pupils were blown and his small frame was wracked with uncoordinated shivers and jerks, he watched as those pale lips opened and closed around silent words for a moment.

'Something you need to tell me Sherlock?' Greg Lestrade's voice was cold and serious as he slowly stepped forward, Sherlock's head snapped in his direction a confused look crossing his face. John noticed the tube was missing from his face, and he was distracted for a moment by how handsome his face was without the accessory. 'Or, better yet; where you got it from? I run a strict ward and I know your brother would never do this but you've had no other visitors.'

Scrunching up his face in confusion John looked closer at Sherlock, thought about Sherlock's eyes and the way he shook and realised he was high, he swallowed the panic and concern that bubbled in his chest. What was going to happen to Sherlock now, would he be sent away somewhere else? He was the only thing that made it bearable for John in this place, he couldn't go.

'Once a rent boy, always a rent boy.' It was strange hearing that intriguing baritone shake, John felt like he was watching a movie as Sherlock laughed. 'H-He prom-promised it if I did what he s-s-said.' Sherlock stumbled jerkily towards his bed, a grimace crossing his lips.

Lestrade moved to cover the last steps between him and Sherlock as he spoke. 'Who did you promise Sherlock?' John looked at his friend, concerned, but he was staring vacantly now as he swayed on the spot. 'Sherlock?' Lestrade tried again, a hand reaching out like approaching a scared animal.

Sherlock looked up once more and made eye contact with John as a small trail of blood ran from Sherlock's nose and dripped to the floor before his eyes rolled up ghoulishly and he collapsed. John shouted in shock as Lestrade dove forward seconds too late, they both heard the crack as Sherlock's skull connected with the shiny floor before he started to convulse.

'John I need you to run to the nurse's station and send an orderly in and have someone call an ambulance.' John stood still for a moment, frozen in shock at the sight of Sherlock seizing against Lestrade's firm hands before bolting.


	6. Because I Want You

**Because I Want You**

_Stumble into you  
Is all I ever do  
My memory's hazy  
And I'm afraid to be alone  
Tear us in two  
Is all it's gonna do  
As the headache fades  
This house is no longer a home_

It was hard to sleep that night; the room was too quiet without the hum of Sherlock's feed pump and the absence of turning pages or soft breathing and snuffles from him. Shortly after Sherlock had made his entrance in to their bedroom, off his face and mumbling madness in front of Lestrade the ward had been put in lock down. Nobody had been allowed to leave their room after a screeching alarm had gone off.

John had rushed back to the room after shouting at a stricken nurse to call an ambulance; raving about Sherlock having a seizure before grabbing an orderly around the arm and running him back to where his roommate was still thrashing on the ground, blood pooling between his dark curls. The paramedics had come quickly, Lestrade had informed them in a rapid fire way what had happened; informed them he suspected either an overdose or drug interaction. Then Sherlock was gone and John had fallen back on his bed to sit in stunned disbelief over what had happened.

A few moments later Lestrade had come back in, two small white pills in his hand and sat beside John and putting a fatherly arm around his rigid shoulders. 'Sherlock will be okay John, but try not to get too caught up okay? He has a lot of his own problems, and you are here for you not him.' He had just nodded.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, John started crying. 'I don't get it.' Was all he muttered, head falling in his hands resignedly as he sobbed.

'People with addictions relapse all the time John, it was a good thing for Sherlock that it happened here where we could get him help right away.' Lestrade retracted his arm. 'Do you know who he was talking about?' John shook his head. 'Okay, that's fine. I wrote you up a PRN, help you calm down a little after what just happened.' He held out the little clear cup he usually got his medication in. 'You don't have to take it if you don't want to but it will help you feel better.'

Reaching out numbly John took the little cup and dry swallowed the medication. 'Can you tell me when you know he's okay?' John mumbled, fiddling with the empty cup.

'I didn't realise you and Sherlock had become such good friends.' Lestrade commented.

Snorting John looked up at him. 'I think we just mutually accepted each other, I see him as a friend but I don't know if he does.'

'Well you can ask him when he comes back, as soon as I have any news I will let you know. You should take it easy after that medication; it can make you a bit sleepy. The ward is on lock down at the moment, so you aren't allowed to leave your room okay?' John just nodded and scooted back against the bed and laid down.

Lestrade had come back in a while later, John hadn't known how much time had passed he'd fallen asleep shortly after someone had come in to clean up the blood Sherlock's seizure and blood nose had left behind. He'd let John know that Sherlock was okay, and he would be back tomorrow morning providing he stayed stable overnight, Lestrade had been right it was an overdose. They'd received their dinners in their room, the ward still locked down until they found who had been supplying the drugs.

All the rooms had been searched, including John and Sherlock's he had just stood in the doorway aimlessly as the room had been upturned and clothes and sheets had been pulled apart. John was almost relieved when nothing had been found, meaning this was a once off occasion for Sherlock. After he had been allowed back in the room and he had cleaned up the orderlies mess John had listened to Lestrade shout at the orderlies and nurses, doling out orders and instructions.

Rolling over for the hundredth time, John stared up at the ceiling dismally. He was still surprised with how much he had admitted to Lestrade earlier, before everything had happened. If he had been in the same position as Sherlock would he have actually tried again?_ Had Sherlock deliberately overdosed? _ After breaking down to Greg it felt like there was a small amount of the weight lifted from his chest, he couldn't make sense of anything right now. Closing his eyes he thought about Sherlock.

Growing up John had always been popular, surrounded by friends. High school had been no different for him; he dated a lot of girls until he got to his final year and had settled down with one girl, Sarah. They had stayed steady; they snuck in to janitor's closets during spare lessons and held hands as they walked around the school halls. They were sweethearts, Sarah came to all his rugby games and they were always seen together at parties. John was respected by his friends and team mates. His grades at school were good; he was destined for college and praised by his teachers for his decision to become a doctor.

If he had met Sherlock before all of this had happened, there was a good chance John wouldn't even have given the younger man the time of day. They had obviously grown up on opposite sides of the fence, Sherlock spoke as though he came from money and his education was definitely public school. Not to mention Sherlock looked like he hadn't participated in a sport a day in his life, he came across as a delicate and petite. Backwards to John's solid, sturdy muscular frame that was well adjusted for tackling and play fighting.

Yet the two boys in the past week had rapidly become friends, they were comfortable sharing close quarters and talking quietly with each other. Sherlock seemed at ease when he was alone with him, compared to how stiff and on edge he held himself in groups or outside in the courtyard. He was like a completely different person when they were alone. John got to see him laugh and smile, listen to him make shy or timid deductions about some of the orderlies and staff.

Then there was the fact that for the past few days John had caught himself staring more often, appreciating almost the beauty of Sherlock's cheekbones and striking blue-grey eyes, the way his hair fell around his face or the way his eyes lit up when he smiled or laughed from his belly. John had never had feelings for another boy before; he couldn't tell if that was even what he was feeling towards Sherlock or if he just thought the guy was good looking.

Groaning with frustration John got up and paced the room, running his hands through his hair John thought vaguely he should ask if he could go and get a haircut but was distracted by the door opening, he looked up and blinked in to blinding torch light- holding up a hand with a wince at the sudden onslaught of light.

'Sorry John expected you to be asleep… Do you want me to get you something to help you sleep?' The torch was lowered to his feet.

'Yeah I think so, thanks.' John smiled appreciatively. He tried not to use the sleeping pills he was prescribed, they made him feel groggy and hungover in the morning still. The first time he had taken them, Sherlock had needed to guide him fully to the cafeteria he was so out of it. They had shared a chuckle over John's breakfast. The orderly came back in and gave him the pills; bid him goodnight and John had lay back down again to wait for sleep to take him.

The first thing Sherlock made out was the sound of machines beeping, then the artificial hiss of oxygen in his nose. He knew without opening his eyes he was in a medical ward, he couldn't remember how he had got here. The last thing he could remember was sitting in an empty room, searching between his toes for a good enough veins to inject the heroin. How had he ended up here?

'Sherlock are you awake now?' Mycroft's clipped tone broke through the haze. He blinked open his eyes and looked towards the voice; his brother was sitting in a plastic chair close to the bed with his legs crossed. He looked tired and rumpled, like he'd come straight from work. 'Do you remember what happened?' Sherlock shook his head in confusion, Mycroft looked like he had been let down which Sherlock hadn't expected. Anger maybe.

Mycroft sighed and leaned towards him. 'Somebody supplied you with Heroin, a stronger solution then you are accustomed to and cut with some other unsavoury chemicals. You overdosed, again. Your blood glucose levels dropped and you had several gran-mal seizures.' Mycroft sighed heavily, shifting in his seat. 'You hit your head when you collapsed, six sutures and a concussion.'

They sat in silence for a moment. 'You're not shouting.' Sherlock mentioned, slurring slightly.

'Oh Sherlock, you nearly died, _again._' Mycroft sighed and shook his head. 'I don't know what to do anymore; shouting certainly won't help the matter.' The slow beep of the heart rate monitor filled the silence. 'I will ask why though.' Sherlock closed his eyes against the weight of the question.

'You had me locked away like an animal, what did you expect me to do Mycroft.' Sherlock answered, hoping that would be the end of the discussion. But of course when it came to Mycroft it was never that simple.

'That may have been one of the reasons Sherlock, but I am not an idiot. There is more to this, and I will get to the bottom of it. And if you were hoping this would cause me to take pity on you Sherlock you are sorely mistaken. As soon as you are medically stable you will be transferred back to the unit.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Does this have any relevance to what lead to finding you under that bridge?' Sherlock tensed. 'Talk to me please Sherlock, or talk to your doctor. We only want to help you, keep you safe. If those things are still happening to you in there, then I will have you removed and sent somewhere else.'

'Leave me alone Mycroft.' He murmured, staring up at the ceiling.

'Doctor Lestrade told me what you said just before you collapsed you know, do you want to know what it was?' Rolling his head to look back at his brother, Sherlock raised his brows sluggishly in question. 'Once a rent boy, always a rent boy.'

Groaning Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed against his brother's knowing gaze. 'I didn't know what I was saying; I was in the midst of an overdose.'

'Of course brother dear.' At that Mycroft stood. 'I will come see you again tomorrow evening.' Sherlock watched him go with heavy eyes, his head aching in response to the concussion. The stitches above his eyebrow itched and pulled whenever he moved his head.


	7. Post Blue

**Post Blue**

_It's in the water baby,  
It's in the pills that pick you up,  
It's in the water baby,  
It's in the special way we fuck,  
It's in the water baby,  
It's in your family tree,  
It's in the water baby,  
It's between you and me_

'Looks like you're all cleared to come back with me Sherlock!' Rolling his head towards the overly loud and cheerful voice Sherlock rolled his eyes at Susie, the perky blonde nurse was standing behind a waiting wheelchair with a bright smile and too much ruby red lipstick. 'If you want to hop on in this chair we can get going, I know John would like to see you!' Sighing Sherlock swung his aching legs over the side of the hospital bed and let his bare feet touch down on the cold linoleum, a small shiver trailing goose-bumps up his flesh.

Over an hour ago the doctors had come in to speak to him, they didn't think he would have anymore seizures and his latest CT scan had come back clean; his body would ache for a few more days to come as an after-effect of the seizures but he would be fine as long as he stayed away from anymore drugs and had his blood sugars regularly monitored on the ward to avoid another crash. They had rambled on about his body mass index and low weight but he had shut them out by then and just stared at the ceiling. He didn't care.

Settling in to the wheelchair with a resigned sigh he placed his feet on the waiting pedestals and felt his empty stomach lurch at the motion as Susie wheeled him from the room, keeping up a stream of meaningless chatter behind him.

By the time they exited the elevators and were buzzed through the locked double doors to the psychiatric ward Sherlock hadn't taken in one word Susie had babbled to him and was grateful when she dropped him off in his room with strict instructions of bed rest for the next twenty-four hours. He settled beneath the covers to appease her and make her leave, but threw them back as soon as she was out the door.

The room was empty, Sherlock didn't know if he was relieved or a little upset that John wasn't there which just made him confused. He had only known John for a week now, but the older boy made him happy- which was rare in itself as Sherlock was used to receiving negative feedback from people his age or more commonly violence for being smarter and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut. John wasn't like that though, he smiled at Sherlock and called him amazing and seemed to want to spend time with him and not sharing the room despite his eccentricities.

When Susie came back in to take his blood pressure and sugar levels Sherlock was deep in thought, when her warm hands touched his spindly arm he jumped in surprise. 'Sorry about that hun, just need to take your blood pressure.' She wrapped the cuff around and his upper arm and smiled down at him. 'How is your head feeling, you're only written up for Paracetamol, do you need any?' He shook his head; it wasn't hurting him at the moment, just itchy. The cuff released with a hiss and he looked at the monitor in surprise at how low his blood pressure was. 'You need to eat something Sherlock, and have a decent drink of water or you are going to end up back on the ward again.' Susie tutted at him, removing the cuff.

'Just need to check your sugar levels now okay?' Sherlock held out a slender finger and flinched at the quick prick but otherwise stayed silent. After a few seconds silence and a quick beep she hummed in approval. 'If I get you a jug of water will you drink it?' He nodded, didn't matter whether he would or not. 'Good boy, now get some rest okay?' She left the room quickly, and he was alone again. The silence was almost insufferable. He wondered absently where John was.

Jolting awake Sherlock blinked his eyes open in surprise; John was standing in the entrance of their bedroom looking like a shocked deer with wide eyes, mouth open in apology as Sherlock rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with a wide yawn and flinch as the stitches pulled. 'Sorry I didn't realise you were back yet, would've come in a bit quieter otherwise. Didn't mean to wake you up.' John grimaced as he moved away from the door he had just slammed shut behind him.

'It's okay John, you weren't to know.' Sherlock assured, sitting up a little straighter and massaging the crick in his neck from sleeping sitting up against the wall. 'I am sorry if I caused you any alarm yesterday.'

'Just a bit of a scare, better now that you're back though. Was creepy quiet in this room on my own.' John laughed and sat on the end of Sherlock's bed. 'How are you feeling?' John's eyes lingered on the stitches.

Smiling softly, Sherlock nodded. 'I am fine, the doctors cleared me this morning.'

'Cool, good to have you back.' They sat quietly, sharing each other's company before John spoke again. 'Uh Sherlock, you can say no if you want to but I was wondering if I could ask you a question?' John's voice was clogged, hesitant like he didn't know whether he should be speaking them. It piqued Sherlock's interest.

'Of course John.' He smiled. John if possible became even more tense as Sherlock looked at him expectantly, his eyes were tight and unsure which put Sherlock himself on edge in anticipation of the question if it was causing John so much concern. 'Really John, please do continue.' Sherlock offered kindly, hoping to alleviate the tension.

'Are-are we friends?' John sputtered, cheeks flushing a vibrant red as he averted his eyes from Sherlock's and clenched his hands in his lap. Sherlock laughed. Which he realised immediately may not have been the right response when John's face fell almost comically. He stopped himself from laughing, and smiled.

Shaking his head Sherlock answered; 'of course we are John, trust me- if we weren't I would have made the last week unbearable for you in this room until you asked to be transferred to another one. I do not make myself suffer for the sake of anyone else's emotions. Plus I see no reason to have led you on in to believe our friendship was a ruse.' John looked up hopefully, a shy smile playing with the corners of his lips that crinkled with the emotion. 'I also find I quiet like you myself, it is not often I come across someone my age I can bare to be around this long-.' Sherlock snorted. 'At least not without being eventually being punched in the face.' This time John laughed, it was a bright sound that lit up the dull room and Sherlock found himself laughing along with him.

'On the topic of questions…' John shifted in his spot on the end of the bed, playing with the generic grey bed spread, a nervous tick Sherlock often did when he was bored. John looked up at him and he nodded in response. 'What's a rent boy?'

An icy plunge seemed to go through Sherlock and he groaned in distaste, throwing his head back in annoyance. Of course his brother had been telling the truth, it hadn't just been a ruse to try and draw more information from him. He was embarrassed to know he had brought something like that up in front of John, and a little nauseated that despite the fact they had just declared themselves to be friends John was going to walk away from him in disgust. 'John…' He murmured, trailing off.

Bringing his head back up he sighed reluctantly. 'If I tell you John, you won't want anything to do with me anymore and you wouldn't be the first person to respond that way.' Sherlock scowled and kept his eyes averted from John's surprised blue ones. His head shot up quickly when John chuckled.

'Sherlock… I've spent the past week in this room with you. Listened to you snore, laughed with you discussed so many bizarre things I couldn't possibly begin to understand. You're strange and intriguing and there's this odd thing about friendships you know, where you share and learn things about each other. I want to know about you Sherlock, please?' John sounded so sincere Sherlock almost wished it were true. He drew in a deep breath and nodded.

'Before all of this I lived on the streets, or in a drug den if you prefer. I left home with a large amount of money that I had been saving for when I left, but I burned through it quickly paying for the drugs- I preferred high quality to the usual street deal- an older man managed the den controlled who came in and out to make sure it stayed safe, we were all younger so for a price he kept us mostly safe. One day when I couldn't pay up he offered me work, said I could make a lot of money for being so pretty. I was desperate, sixteen years old and completely reliant on Heroin, Cocaine and Morphine and had no intention of stopping so I accepted the job not knowing what I was walking in to it.

'Of course when he dropped me off on the streets after cleaning me up and gave me a going rate I realised what I had gotten myself in to. I worked as a prostitute John, young men on the streets are known as rent boys. I had sex with men in their cars or hotel rooms for money so I could pay for a place to sleep and my habit.'

The room was quiet as both boys absorbed the information, Sherlock was waiting for John to jump off the bed in disgust, hit him or swear at him; anything but the suffocating silence that was currently swallowing them. It dragged on for a few moments before John drew in and blew out a deep breath. 'I can deal with that.'

Sherlock's head snapped up so quickly in shock it felt like whiplash. 'What?' He stuttered, heart racing in shock.

'I said I can deal with that, I don't see why I couldn't. You used to be a prostitute, you did what was necessary at the time to stay alive, not going to hold something like that against you.' John smirked and shook his head, Sherlock just stared in disbelief mouth still hanging open. _Who on earth _was _this boy? _

'Thank you John, that means a lot to me.' Sherlock said empathetically. John smiled back jumping up off the bed and moving to his side of the room and rummaging through something Sherlock couldn't see behind the bed.

'I was just with my dad, he stopped by before work and dropped some more things off including a portable DVD player and some Dr Who disks, and since I'm assuming you're on bed rest I figure we could watch some together to pass the time. Scoot over.' John nudged Sherlock's shoulder and he shuffled over on the bed to make room for John to lean against the headboard with him and they settled down, shoulder to shoulder.

'What on earth is Doctor Who?' Sherlock asked, plucking the case rudely from John's hands to look at the cover and snorting. 'It looks like rubbish.' He proclaimed, making John laugh loudly as pressed play and they fell in to a companionable silence.

By the time Susie poked her head back in the room she smiled, Sherlock's head was resting on John's shoulder as he slept and the older teen watched the small screen groggily looking up at her briefly to smile softly.


	8. Special K

**Special K**

_I'll describe the way I feel  
You're my new Achilles heel  
Can this savior be for real  
Or are you just my seventh seal?_

'Okay guys, last week we spoke a little about our habits and what led us towards developing them and how they go us here today. So I thought today we might go over that again, maybe go a little deeper. Now you don't have to share you can just sit and listen, the same rules apply that we have in place every week it's a safe environment where you can speak your mind as long as it stays mature and doesn't get out of hand alright?' John sunk down in his plastic chair, ready to hunker down and get comfortable and listen like he had since arriving on the ward. He had yet to share anything about himself in the group, he took full advantage of the rules.

A small hacky sack was passed around the patients as they offered to speak, nobody could talk unless they had the ball in their hands and John never offered to hold it; he was just happy to sit and listen to everyone else. Today would be no different. He looked up when a pale petite hand ascended in to the air and the ball landed softly in Irene's lap, she was never hesitant to talk and John found he liked the sound of her lilting voice; it was charismatic and charming- almost like a lull.

'I get why I'm here, daddy diddled a little to fondly with his princess locked up in the tower- gave me some bad habits I need to work on. I get that, but what about those who didn't plan on being here but on a cold slab instead?' Irene raised a perfect eyebrow in question, green eyes dancing with the question as John perked up in response.

Michael, the group leader cleared his throat. 'Remember to watch your terminology there Irene, care to expand on what you mean though?' He asked, leaning forward in his chair. All eyes were Irene now as she chucked the ball back and forth in her palms. John cast an eye towards Sherlock but the younger youth was sprawled in his seat, all gangly limbs and disinterest with his eyes lightly closed.

'Not all of us went on this downward spiral with the end intention of dying, some of us just did what we could to make living that little bit easier on ourselves.' Irene paused and John froze when she looked towards him before quickly averting his gaze. 'But some people decided it would be the ends of a mean. I guess I'm a little confused.' She finished, chucking the ball back to Michael who nodded, catching it swiftly.

'Okay that makes sense, everyone has different coping mechanisms.' Michael leant back against the chair, John made sure they didn't make eye contact as he cast his eyes around the small circle of teenagers. 'But who is to say suicide isn't a form of coping?' He held the ball up. A curly haired dark skinned girl held up her hand for it. 'Go ahead Sally.' John looked forward again as the ball was passed across.

'How can something permanent be a coping mechanism though? It's ending it altogether, giving up and not even trying to deal with the issue at hand.' Sally quipped bitterly, John wondered if she had lost someone to suicide before the way it made her eyes tight and lips thin when she had finished speaking; like the words had left a bad taste in her mouth. The ball quickly went back to Michael who held it up ready for the next person. John was shocked when he felt his own hand rise up ready to catch the projectile object. He saw Sherlock sit up a little in surprise out of the corner of his eye.

Shifting a little uncomfortably in the limelight he suddenly found himself in John coughed to clear his throat and clutched the ball. 'I don't think it's a coping mechanism, or a mean to an end either. It's more like a relief, a chance to get away from it all. You get the depression, the grief and the guilt and the suffocating pain and nothing, I mean nothing takes that away. You lose everything in one moment to a reckless driver and suddenly you are just this hollow shell and as empty as the corpse you spent three hours crying out to while you're trapped in a car bleeding out and moments away from death yourself.' Everyone's eyes were on him, John swallowed and took a deep breath to steady himself.

'But you don't bleed out, they rescue you but you aren't whole anymore. You're broken and suddenly all those things you dreamed of are gone; dads as absent as your future as a doctor because the car crushed your shoulder and your hand is useless. My girlfriend wouldn't touch or look at me, too scarred. I had to leave the rugby team because I spent two months wasting away in a hospital bed. I didn't talk to anyone, didn't leave the house or go to school anymore. My mum was dead, so dad may as well have been too. I spent nights wrapped in my sister's blankets just to smell her after she died too. The only thing that gave me purpose and a reason to get up every day was the prospect of the day I would kill myself.'

A tear ran down John's cheek, he almost felt like he could smell his sister again. 'It wasn't a coping mechanism, it was a way out and to get away from everything. The ghosts in the house, the shrine of my sister's bedroom and mums coffee cup on the bench with coffee still in it- long rancid. It was the only way to escape.' John chucked the ball back to Michael and buried his face in his hands to hide the tears running down his cheeks.

He didn't know why he had just shared all of that, but he couldn't bear the thought of someone thinking he had attempted to end his life because hadn't tried living first, he had tried for a long time but he had been more then obvious that he couldn't do it anymore and nothing was going to get better. It hadn't been an easy decision to make, he had ruminated and thought about it for a long time before he had made the solid decision and started to plan, accumulating the pills and working out his best available time to take his life.

'Thank you for sharing that John, you did a very brave thing letting the group in on something so personal.' Michael pocketed the ball, ending the group session for today and everyone stood up solemnly. By the time John looked up again the room was empty except for Michael and Sherlock, who was standing by his side looking away from him with pinched eyes and fidgeting hands. 'Are you okay John?' Michael asked, kneeling down in front of him and meeting his eyes earnestly.

John just nodded. He didn't think he would be able to speak without breaking down right now, as it was he jumped when a cold hand came down on his shoulder and offered an awkward squeeze. He looked up and smiled at Sherlock, grateful for the contact when it seemed difficult for the younger man to dole it out. 'Sit in here for a moment and take a breather okay, I will go and ask a nurse to fetch you some medication okay? I don't think it would be wise to say no right now okay?' He just nodded again and let his head go back to his hands. Shoulders shaking.

'I am not very good at these things John, I think you know that by now- but is there anything that I can do for you?' Sherlock was standing beside him still, hand on John's shoulder applying a pleasant amount of comfort to him. His lips smiled of their own accord as he looked up at Sherlock and shook his head. 'You are doing all of the right things, what they expect of you John you should be proud.'

John was a little taken aback by the almost clinical delivery of the words from Sherlock but all he could offer in return was another nod. His throat was constricted with emotion, he hadn't spoken about the accident before, and certainly never in so much detail. He could almost smell the sharp tang of blood and metal surrounding him as he became aware of his own panicked panting and the cold sweat running down his body and pooling in the small of his back above the rough waistline of his jeans. Scrunching his eyes shut he tried to shake the effects of his memory, he forced his eyes open again to visually remind himself he was in the large group room; not the crushed confines of his family car bleeding and impaled against the backseat.

A sharp throb of memory pain shot through his shoulder and his hand clenched in response, his whole body started to shake. 'Open your eyes John.' Sherlock's baritone coursed through John and he blinked his eyes open in shock, not realising he had closed them again. Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, his long legs allowing him to be just above eye level with John. 'Michael had a fight with his girlfriend this morning, there is a smudge of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth and a coffee stain on his shirtsleeve meaning he left the house in a hurry and didn't have anyone to point it out to him. He most likely drank the coffee in the car on the way over, it must have been a messy fight to make him leave the house so quickly but still cause him to come in late.' Sherlock spoke loudly, and John was thankful for it, realising what he was doing.

'I cannot be sure but it could have been over the girlfriend bringing home a new pet if the hairs on the bottom of his trousers were anything to go by. I haven't noticed them before.' John laughed shortly, feeling the pressure and tension slowly leaving his shoulders as his hands unfolded cold and clammy against his jean clad thighs. 'If I am to continue playing the assumption game it was a puppy, the hairs were too long and coarse to belong to a cat or a kitten.'

'It was a terrier and I am hoping it will be gone by the time I get home this evening.' John's head shot up, cheeks flushing red for being caught out listening to Sherlock talk about the group coordinator, not everyone enjoyed his new friends deductions the way he did and it had gotten him a few sharp words in response, Sherlock however just smirked in response; gloating over being right. 'Here we are John, sorry it took me so long I had to speak with doctor Lestrade and have him right you up something a bit stronger.' Michael handed him a small plastic cup and water with a tablet he wasn't familiar with inside.

'What's this?' He asked, weary if taking something new without knowing what it was first.

'It's an anxiety medication called Lorazepam, a benzodiazepine similar to the Diazepam we have given you before; just a little stronger.' John still hesitated. 'It's okay to take, completely safe.' Nodding he took a small mouthful of water and swallowed the tablet. 'You might want Sherlock to escort you back to your room though; it can make you a bit drowsy and unsteady on your feet. It wasn't a large dose but it's better to be on the safer side with these things.' Nodding John stood up and thanked Michael and smiled to Sherlock as he stood up beside him. 'I think Lestrade might be stopping by to see you soon.'

They walked back to their bedroom in silence, John could feel Sherlock's hand hovering at his back until they got through the door of their own personal domain. John looked around and noticed it was a mess, after Sherlock had come back from the medical ward they had seemed to have forgotten all meaning of personal space and barriers and the floor was covered in damp towels and dirty clothes. Some of Sherlock's books were on John's side of the room, a nest of blankets and an extra pillow they had stolen from a linen trolley were between the beds where they watched DVD's together. Pieces of paper were taped to the sickly white walls covered in John's messy drawings and Sherlock neater sketches. It had become comfortable.

Shuffling over to his bed John flopped back on it, huffing out an exhausted breath as his head spun a little as the medication began to takes it sedating effects. Sherlock seemed to hover for a moment, unsure what he should do before planting himself on his own bed and pulling a book towards himself, John watched with hooded eyes before closing them and letting his body sink like a cloud in to the sheets and downy mattress.

It wasn't long before Lestrade knocked at their door however, peeking his head around and summoning John from his light drug induced slumber and escorting him hazily from the room to his office. When they were settled down and John accepted the offer for a cup of tea Lestrade dove right in.

'Michael filled me on your insight in group today, said it was the first time you had shared.' John nodded. 'Sounded like it had a pretty profound effect on you as well so I thought I might have a little word with you and see how you were travelling.' He left it open for him to pick up in his own time.

'I haven't spoken about it like that before, it hurt and made me feel like I was there again.' He sniffled. 'I could even smell the blood and my shoulder hurt like that piece of metal was still going through it.' John's hand massaged the scar tissue unconsciously. 'I still see her, mum- lying back against the seat like she's just sleeping. Take away the blood and she could have been, that's all I kept thinking when I was trapped in the car- it was all okay she's just asleep John, they'll get her out and she'll be fine.'

Lestrade nodded. 'You gave yourself self-hope.'

'I still do, in my dreams she survives, her and Harriet walk away from it like nothing ever happened.' John choked on his tears, his throat closed over and he sank forward in his seat as he broke down sobbing. 'Waking up- it fucking sucks and I hate it so much.' His voice came out rough and coarse, snot and tears salty on his lips. 'They're there when I'm asleep, I just want to be able to sleep forever and be with them, be okay and happy and a family again. I don't want to deal with being alive, I hate it.' John yelled, standing up and stomping toward a messy bookcase and clutching several thick covers and pulling them out, throwing them across the room in an emotional rage.

Turning he kicked over his chair, he let out a guttural cry as he slammed a fist repeatedly in to the wall before Greg rushed over and grabbed him, holding his wrist tightly and directing him toward the worn down sofa against the back wall. He curled in on himself, letting the cries wrack his body. Greg just sat beside him with a soothing hand rubbing against his back.

After he had finished crying his face was puffy and red, his eyes almost too swollen to see out of but it had been almost cathartic in a way to break down like that. 'This is good progress John, you need to be able to let all this out. Take a moment and I'll walk you back to your room okay?' John took a deep breath, wincing at how dry and rough his throat felt and nodded with a small smile of thanks.


	9. Black Eyed

**Black Eyed**

_I was never loyal  
Except to my own pleasure zone  
I'm forever black-eyed  
A product of a broken home_

After John had left with Lestrade, Sherlock had shuffled back further on the bed with the book in his hands and tried to focus on the words, but his head was fuzzy and light and he couldn't concentrate. Eventually he was going to have start working on some sort of nutrition for his transport, his body was aching and his muscles were starting to cramp more on him the longer he went without solid food. It was becoming obvious he needed more than just black coffee and nicotine to run on, his stomach clenched painfully in response and he swallowed reflexively against the burn of reflux and nausea.

There was the choice of asking permission to have Mycroft bring in foods we was willing to eat, face the slop in the cafeteria or relent and allow them to put the irritating tube back down his throat and simply pump in the disgusting formula and save him the act of eating altogether. Either way he didn't want to think about it right now, he was cold tired and bored.

Closing his eyes Sherlock let out a large sigh and relaxed against the pillow, willing his body to settle down and hopefully fall in to sleep. He popped an unwilling eye open though when the door creaked open, surely John couldn't be back already; and checks had come just before he had left with Greg. His stomach dropped when Anderson's greasy head appeared around the door, leering grin pulling the corners of his lips up as he moved in to the room and shut the door behind him. He never took his eyes off Sherlock as he leaned against the wall. 'Lookie here, if the skeleton hasn't been left alone! No pet body guard here to protect you today Sherly.'

Sitting up abruptly Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, he didn't want to be lying down while Anderson was in the room with him, he knew what he wanted and today he was not in the mood. Standing up he moved towards the bathroom, it was the one place with a lock on the door where he could hide himself and wait out the older boy. Anderson beat him there though, one of his clammy cold hands pressing against the door handle and shutting Sherlock off from his only out. Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms against his chest almost protectively. 'Get out Anderson, I have no interest in playing your childish games today.'

Sherlock felt the breath whoosh out of his body as he was slammed against the bathroom door, one of those hands closing threateningly around his throat as the other boy leaned in close to his ear; 'now, now Sherlock. You know how this goes.' Anderson leant further in and licked up the side of his face before nipping the corner of his ear, Sherlock shuddered in repulsion and tried to squirm away but the hand just pressed harder against his throat and held him there as Anderson's hips ground against his.

'Stop it, get out.' Sherlock brought his arms up and pushed against Anderson but the older boy was taller and more solid then he was, he simply pressed himself harder against Sherlock and brought his spare hand up to wrap around one of Sherlock's wrists and hold it above his head, bringing his head in to nuzzle the nape of his neck and bite at the pale skin there before burying his nose in Sherlock's dark curls. 'Get off me, I don't want anything to do with this anymore.' He struggled vainly, not willing to give up easily.

Anderson had been doing this to him since he had arrived, claimed his stake on Sherlock early and made the terms clear that he ran the ward and that if Sherlock wanted or needed anything he could set him up for a price. Sherlock had accepted it at first, taking advantage of the allowances Anderson could get him at night to escape outside for a cigarette or simply roam the streets until dawn. In the past week though he had changed his mind, he hadn't left the ward or his bedroom after hours since coming back from the medical ward, and had made sure to avoid all advances from Anderson in that time. He was angry for leaving himself open like this, alone and not ready for something.

'Not till I get what I came for, don't think I don't know that this is what you do for a living on the outside. Spread those long legs for dirty men cheating on their wives in the back of their family wagons.' Anderson thrust against his hips again, his erection digging in to Sherlock's crotch. 'While you're in here you are _my_ dirty little whore Sherlock.' He leered, biting down below the line of Sherlock's t-shirt, marking him and making him gasp in pain.

Sherlock's struggles renewed with vigour. 'Get out of this room or I will tell Lestrade you are the one bringing in the drugs, and believe me- he will find enough evidence.' Sherlock hissed, but Anderson just laughed breathlessly against his skin, licking the small beads of blood there and sending a sickened ripple of shame through Sherlock's body.

'What the fuck…. GET OFF HIM!' Anderson was suddenly wrenched away from Sherlock who stood frozen against the door. He hadn't heard the door open, John had come in and now held Anderson against the floor in a stranglehold, his face turning a deep puce red as he struggled for a breath against John's solid arm pressing dangerously against his windpipe. Sherlock couldn't seem to make himself respond, how did John keep catching him in these predicaments? He slid down the wall, a hand going up to close over the bite Anderson had left over his collarbone.

'Are you okay Sherlock?' He looked up, John had let Anderson go in a jumbled heap of boneless limbs against the lino as he gasped for breath. John was kneeling down in front of him now, a tentative hand held out between them both. Sherlock nodded dumbly, mouth dry from shock. 'Should I get Lestrade, or an orderly?' John moved to get up but Sherlock shot out a hand and grabbed him, shaking his head viciously.

'No-no it's okay, thank you for intervening. He caught me off guard is all, thank you John.' Sherlock coughed to clear his throat. 'I don't believe he will be a problem again.' Sherlock assured, looking over to Anderson who was pushing himself up now and glaring daggers at them both. 'Isn't that right Anderson?'

'You're fucking pet won't be loyal to you forever Sherlock, he will leave you alone eventually and I'll take what I want.' Anderson stood up and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

'I'm sorry you had to see that John.' Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his shaking hands. He was shaky after being caught off guard like that and being unable to fight back and protect himself. He hated being weak, and having people think they owned him and he was their property. That whole ideal had landed him in this situation in the first place. Sherlock wasn't willing to go there again.

He also wasn't stupid enough to believe he had the situation under control, he had gotten himself in to the mess and he had foolishly underestimated Anderson and how far he would take the whole thing. He knew full well that if John hadn't shown up just now Anderson would have taken what he came for. 'That first day at lunch, when he came to the table… that was to do with this wasn't it?' John's voice snapped him out his haze and he looked up.

'Yes John. But we don't have to worry about it anymore, or talk it about it if you wouldn't mind.' John just nodded in response, standing up and offering Sherlock a hand to stand up as well and leading him towards the bed before he went in to the bathroom, coming back out with a wet washcloth he placed against the bite mark. Sherlock smiled in thanks and held it there, a small blush blossoming on his cheeks. He wasn't accustomed to this sort of treatment lately. The past eighteen months of his life hadn't been the easiest.

They sat in companionable silence, John sniffling occasionally as they sat side by side. Sherlock had noticed how puffy and red rimmed his eyes had been, the tip of his nose red raw from wiping it so often. 'I'm glad you survived John.' Sherlock whispered quietly, leaning his weight against the other boys shoulder.


	10. Spite and Malice

**Spite and Malice**

_Aces take your time  
Draw your final breath  
Jacks are feeling fine  
They've clubbed themselves to death  
Aces take your pity  
You sleep with it instead  
Aces take your time_

For the first time since Sherlock had been in the medical ward, John was completely alone. After opening up to Lestrade some more about his feelings and emotions towards the car accident he had been allowed small fifteen minute breaks off the ward. With this he could go up to the cafeteria, use the rec room on the second floor and access the courtyard where he and Sherlock sat and ate their meals.

Today he was sitting on a table with his head tipped back towards the sun, smiling softly in to the warm rays. Summer had just begun and the tell-tale greyscale clouds that were almost a signature for London were being kept away allowing the sky to shine a bright cerulean blue. It was peaceful and calm out here, nobody else was around so he had the courtyard to himself to appreciate the warm breeze and muffled sounds of the traffic down below. He hadn't felt this peaceful for a long time.

After a moment his mind drifted towards Sherlock, his enigmatic and handsome roommate whom he still didn't understand for a second. Despite being only sixteen he was already becoming handsome, his cheekbones and unruly dark curls against alabaster skin made him look like a model from the magazines his ex-girlfriend had used to read around him. And John understood none of that, why he was noticing these things in the first place about another male.

Not to mention he seemed like a very troubled person, and John didn't know if that was something he was willing to get in to even if he did work out his feelings. But so far Sherlock had been nothing but understanding and helpful to John himself when he suffered a bad spell when they were alone, he was always willing to help John.

Then there was the issue with Anderson, the older patient hadn't made anymore advances towards Sherlock that he knew of, just shot them dark looks across the courtyard as they ate. Sherlock had shut down any attempts John had made over the last few days to speak about it, but he was always shut down with a quick change of subject or a non-committal grunt. It was beginning to be frustrating, he only wanted to help him and let him know that he would be there should Anderson try anything again, Sherlock wouldn't always have to be on edge or looking behind his back in the corridors waiting for something.

Growling with frustrating John sat up and looked at his watch, his fifteen minutes were up and he was going to be late to group if he didn't get a move on. It was his least favourite of the program, but it at least passed forty minutes of time for them all. Boredom was quick to come by whenever they were left idle for too long. Though John and Sherlock always managed to keep themselves entertained somehow, John had quickly learnt that boredom and his eccentric roommate did not mix well together.

Stumbling down the stairs back to the ward he hit the button to open the doors and pushed through, Sherlock was already heading towards the group room as he moved down the hallway and he jogged to catch up. 'Hey how did you go with Lestrade?' He bumped his elbow against Sherlock's side in greeting of the taller youth, he looked a little haughty and put upon his eyes a little glassy.

'It was predictable.' Was all Sherlock would offer as they made their way in the group room, the chairs had been pushed back against the wall and a collection of mixed pillows and cushions formed a circle in the middle of the room. Sherlock huffed dramatically beside him and headed towards a pillow before John noticed him stiffen a little and look towards something in front of him.

Peering around the taller boy John raised his eyebrows in question, Sherlock was staring transfixed at an old violin that looked like it had seen better days before a battered bow leaning beside it on the chair. 'Do you play?' He asked, pointing to the instrument.

Sherlock nodded and moved towards the violin almost like in a trance. 'Not since I left home, I own a Stradivarius.' He bent down and picked it up, plucking the strings and looking surprised to see them in tune. For a moment it looked like he would put it back down again but to John's surprise he brought it up to his shoulder and poised the bow over the strings as he adjusted his fingers on the neck before beginning to play.

It was like a lullaby, Sherlock was like an enigma locked inside an enigma with all the secrets he kept locked away hidden inside from everyone. The melody coming from the violin was beautiful, the other patients were milling in the room now, even some of the staff. Sally stood the closest to them with her mouth slightly open as she watched Sherlock play. John was drawn in, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the lithe form moving with the music. When he finished playing the room erupted in applause, John even added a wolf whistle in for dramatic effects. 'That was beautiful.' He whispered, rushing over to Sherlock to lean close to him and deliver the compliment, his friend just smiled shyly and moved the violin away from him his head turning and flushing a deeper red when he noticed how many people were in the room now.

Howard, the elderly man that ran the music group came over excitedly and clapped Sherlock on the back making John chuckle when the force almost sent Sherlock sprawling. 'Three weeks you've come in to this room and sat there looking sullen and all this time you've known how to play….' He shook his head in amusement as Sherlock shrugged and put the violin down and moved over to a cushion before plunking down on it dramatically. John settled himself down a little more carefully.

They spent the rest of the group intermittently listening to Sherlock play after they coaxed him in to it, and listening to a religious CD before Howard handed out a sheet of paper to each patient and tried to convince them all to sing along with him. It was a horrible idea, only a few of them sang along and it was dreadfully off beat making John cringe.

When the group was over John headed upstairs for lunch on his own, Sherlock had been pulled aside by Howard and told him he would meet him up there so he had gone ahead; happy to be back in the sun again. He took a large gulp of his coffee and put the plastic mug down on the table as his thoughts drifted.

Last summer he had been on holiday with his family, it had been before Harry had come out about her sexuality and there was no tension between any of them; they were just your average family enjoying time on the beach. Though his parents didn't make a lot of money they had been saving for a holiday to France, he could remember the excitement on his mums face when they had arrived at the waterfront cottage. How much fun they had had playing the waves, on their first day there Harry hadn't wanted to go in the water but their dad had picked her up and ran headfirst in to a wave with her in his arms.

John wished he could hear those squeals of laughter one more time, see the relaxation sparkle in his mum's eyes as she lounged on white sand and read a book. A lone tear ran down his cheek and he violently wiped it away. Despite the progress he had been making, and the joy he felt around Sherlock and how accepting he had become of his treatment plan things still weren't okay. Lonely moments like this, and before he fell asleep his thoughts destroyed him and he still wanted to be dead, still desperately regretted and hated the fact that he had survived and was in this place. He lost all hope and desire to fight.

Dropping his sandwich back to the tray John sighed and wiped away more tears, blinking them back as Sherlock dropped down in front of him, with; to John's surprise a sandwich and juice cup. He looked up at him with raised eyebrows in question, smiling. 'Leave it John.' Was all Sherlock offered in response.

Trying not to be offended John just nodded and picked up his own sandwich again and taking another bite of the ham and mustard pickle, the bread was a little stale but it was still decent. 'How long have you played for?' John asked around a mouthful.

'Mummy was adamant me and Mycroft played an instrument, I started when I was six years old. Mycroft plays the piano, he tried the violin but his fingers were thicker than his ever expanding waistline and couldn't hit the correct notes.' John laughed, choking on a slice of ham. 'Being a sedentary instrument works in his favour.' No more brotherly love lost there, John thought.

They shared a small moment of comfortable quiet before John broke it, an uneasy question breaching his lips and making his voice a soft jumble of words he didn't understand why he was asking. 'Sherlock, have you ever lost someone?' Maybe it was to do with Harry and his mum and his thoughts over them earlier that day; he needed someone he could relate with; to understand the little bubble of pain he often found himself.

After swallowing a tiny bite of bread, Sherlock looked up at John inquisitively and confused. 'My brother, when I was twelve.' The delivery of the statement threw John off, there were no emotions hidden behind it or even any empathy or longing. It took a minute for John to realise he had just been staring at Sherlock when the other boy looked away; uncomfortable.

'Do you ever miss him, or when it first happened did you ever feel guilty about the fact that you were able to appreciate a beautiful flower or a sunny day?' Sherlock didn't respond, he didn't even turn to meet John's eyes but he noticed the slight shake of his head and downturn of his pursed lips. 'Summer at home was usually great, mum would try and always find time to take me and Harry to the beach, even dad would come if he could get the afternoon off work and it was brilliant. I was thinking about them today, the sun reminded me of them and I realised I am never going to see my mum smiling on the sand or hear my sister laugh and squeal when my dad picks her up and runs headfirst in to a big wave with her.

'What makes me so special and important that I should get to be around to appreciate blue skies and warm sun?' John turned his angry gaze to the offending beams of sunshine that beat down on them from above, not a care in the world. 'Did you ever feel that way?' He asked Sherlock again, facing the younger boy now with watery eyes desperate to be agreed with and understood. To have someone who knew where he was coming from and maybe make it hurt a little less.

'It is survivors guilt John, hasn't Lestrade discussed that with you yet? It's a rather elementary response to losing a loved one in something you were also involved in.' Sherlock reached long thin fingers towards a cigarette and paused before lighting it. 'And no, I never felt anything like that we were not close as siblings, he was several years older than myself and we had rare contact outside of the occasional seasonal occasion or family party.' Hearing Sherlock say that made his heart clench a little, John couldn't imagine growing up separated from his family members like that. It all seemed to formal and cold.

Where was the familial love and affection? John may not get along with his father of late since his mum had died but they still shared a close bond through hugs and light touches to the shoulder here or there; especially since John had been brought to the ward. But he hadn't ever seen Sherlock and his brother embrace or even shake hands, whenever he had walked by the visitors lounge and seen them together they had been poised with legs crossed and talking coolly over a small table like they were simply dealing with a business matter.

'I'll ask Lestrade about it next time I see him, thank you.' John smiled softly and went back to his sandwich as Sherlock blew hazy grey smoke rings in to the ozone. He didn't want lunch to end, he was due to face a visit from his dad afterwards and he honestly wasn't looking forward to it. His dad had begun to try too hard, almost like he was trying to be more of one his rugby mates then a parent and it was setting him on edge and making him irritable.

The last visit he'd had, had put him on edge and found him gritting his teeth in impatience for it to be over before he blew up in response to the way the older man was acting. He just wanted a parent that could understand what had happened and say it was all going to be okay, he really didn't think it could be that much to ask. But instead his dad was being delicate towards the subject and treating John as though he was almost too delicate to touch or he might break. It was insufferable and infuriating to sit through and bear without snapping or creating a scene.

Even though he was making progress; in Lestrade's words John was still having trouble emoting and showing his feelings without allowing them to build up and causing him to lash out. With a repressed sigh he looked back to Sherlock instead of at the blue skies, he wondered whether he had dreaded the awfully informal visits from his brother; they were always both so stiff and postured.

It was strange knowing Sherlock was related to the young man he had seen dressed so proper, where Sherlock's hair was wild and unruly with curls his brothers was straight and fair, his cheekbones high and the others haughty and full. The only resemblance John had been able to find were the icy blue eyes, even though Sherlock's when they were caught in the light were an ever changing sea of blues and green.

Shaking his head John blushed when he realised he had been staring at Sherlock for so long, thinking about his appearance though the other boy hadn't noticed his own gaze turned away towards the balcony, cigarette hung limp in his slender fingers forgotten. He looked so serene and beautiful, the sun almost dazzling against his alabaster skin. The blush rose furiously in his cheeks, _why was he thinking this way about another boy? _John hadn't ever felt this way before, he had only ever had eyes for the female patriarchy of his high school; he'd never strayed in to this realm before. It was disconcerting and alarming at the same time, but he still felt his gaze travel back to Sherlock. John could admit the teenager was handsome and lithe, but he was having internal difficulties understanding the other emotions he was feeling.

Like the late night dreams and the pool of heat he'd wake up to in his belly and building in his groin as he was startled awake by checks coming and going. Forcing himself to turn away he looked at Sherlock's tray instead, pleased to see the juice cup empty and half the sandwich left behind amongst a collection of crumbs and abandoned crusts. 'Are you going to eat that?' John asked, inclining his head towards the abandoned sandwich half and drawing Sherlock's dazed attention to him through confused hooded eyes. 'The sandwich?' He asked.

'Oh no, go ahead.' Sherlock pushed it towards him while looking down at the cigarette that was now half ash still between his fingers before flicking it and relighting; drawing in a thick cloud of grey smoke before exhaling languidly and leaning forward with one elbow on the table and his chin resting on an upturned palm. Smiling and reaching for the sandwich John caught a peak for the first time of Sherlock's wrist, the bandages had come off three days before but he never wore anything but long sleeves so John hadn't seen what they had been hiding until now.

It wasn't just one cut, or scar that he could see through the cave the hanging sleeve caused against the slender joint; but the healing scab where the skin had been sown back together was gruesome and wicked. It was thick and still a little bruised but stark against the pale skin, the delicate area littered with thick deep scarring. Looking away quickly John coughed awkwardly and sipped on his coffee. Hardly seemed fair he was allowed to see something so personal of Sherlock's without the others permission to peak.

'John Watson?' Startled John looked up to seek out the voice and found an orderly at the cafeteria door motioning him over. His dad must have come early. With a sigh he smiled at Sherlock and stood up, aware of the smattering of red blush still against his cheeks as he hurried away from the images of scars.


	11. Narcoleptic

**Narcolpetic**

_Crush and crumble under your defenses  
It's not treason, it's no lie  
You frame the photograph, I sit on fences  
Change of season, love can die_

Slumping down low in the weathered cushions of the tacky floral sofa that sat against the far wall of Greg Lestrade's office, Sherlock averted his eyes and picked at a loose thread as the awkward silence that had hovered thick in the air since Sherlock had walked in continued to smother the two occupants with its oppressiveness. Shoulders heaving up and down in a dramatic sigh he pulled on the thread and internally rolled his eyes. This was apparently Lestrade's new attempt at goading him in to talking, but he was going to be in for a shock as he learnt an important lesson about Sherlock; he could sit silently for hours.

No more than five minutes later after Sherlock had plucked a longer strand from the cushion, Lestrade broke first. 'Dammit Sherlock this had to stop, I don't care if you want to sit there like a petulant child that didn't get his way and waste my time, fine! I could use some silence and a little break- but with that you need to accept that the outcome of this little ruse means you won't be seeing the outside of these walls for a long time and I can promise you that!' Lestrade picked up his mug and took a long draw of his coffee, studying the youth slumped over across from him. 'The ball is in your court mate.'

They sat in silence for another five minutes. 'Quid qou pro.' Sherlock muttered, still refusing to look up. His stomach was starting to cramp from what he had eaten at lunch time and the last place he wanted to be right now was in this room attempting to make conversation with a gaping gold fish that thought he cared. His brain was sluggish and slow from digestion, he just wanted a bed. 'I'll share something about myself if you tell me something in return. You used to be a psychiatrist for the criminally insane; you stepped down from that though after getting to close to a case. I want to know what happened.'

Lestrade was quick to shake his head. 'No this doesn't work like that, we aren't here to discuss me. We are here to focus on you Sherlock, and to work on getting you back out in to the community again.' Sherlock scoffed.

'Then you may as well start bringing a book to these sessions, I am not going to pretend you care and want to listen to another sob story from some helpless teen while you try and unravel me and fix what doesn't need to be fixed. You may as well pretend we are getting somewhere in these sessions and just go through the make believe motions to "get me back to the community",' Sherlock made bunny ears as he spoke sarcastically 'so I can be someone else's problem. I am no more interested in wasting your time then you are mine Graham.'

'Who is Graham?' Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in question, condescension dripping from his featured. How could this man be so daft, and yet running a whole psychiatric ward? 'Bloody hell it's Greg, how many times have I told you that Sherlock?' He shrugged in response, names weren't important. 'This isn't Silence of the Lambs Sherlock; I am not sharing personal information about my life with you. Besides it is illegal, patient doctor privilege only.'

'I have nothing to offer you, there is no reason to look back on my past and pick it apart and try and pin point the moment where everything went wrong, you won't find one. I lived a perfectly ordinary and normal life before I made the decision to step outside my comfort zones and pursue a life of addiction on the streets. Nothing drew me, or forced me in to it I just got bored and fed up. End of story.' Sherlock huffed and threw himself back against the cushions, crossing his arms against his chest and turning his eyes towards the large windows behind Lestrade's desk and squinting against the glare of the warm sunshine he had been enjoying before an orderly had dragged him to his office.

'None of that explains why you were found unconscious under a bridge with three times the amount of heroin in your system, and before you try and say it was accident-.' Lestrade was holding up a finger against Sherlock's open mouth 'why you then went on to seek out a blade and slice your wrists the moment someone turned their back on you.' They stared off against each other, Lestrade's warm blue eyes against Sherlock's icy cerulean ones. 'Was that just boredom again Sherlock? Maybe looking for a more permanent relocation from this planet to escape something that you don't want to talk about, that keeps you coming in here each time and building poorly kept walls. Aren't you tired of this game yet, just let me help you Sherlock; please?'

Lestrade's voice was on the verge of begging and it made Sherlock's skin crawl, his lip peeled back in a repulsed sneer as he drew away from the salt and peppered older man that towered over him now, his broad shoulders cutting off any access to the harsh beams of light he had been squinting against. Shooting up in a rage Sherlock got up in the psychiatrists face 'You do not know me or anything that has happened to me and you have no right to stand there and try to pick me apart and poorly attempt to put the pieces back together again.' Turning and stalking towards the door Sherlock paused with a hand on the knob before turning back to the doctor. 'What's done is done and I will not discuss with anyone let alone the likes of you "Greg" so you may as well put your misguided well intentions back in the bag and go back to dwelling on your own failure to communicate and go on dwelling over the dead little girl you let die.'

Quirking his lip in a smirk when Lestrade's eyes shut down and became shuttered, body tensing and fists balling at his sides Sherlock pulled the door open and stalked out before slamming the door behind him. The same orderly that had escorted him from the courtyard sat up in confusion with raised eyebrows, he had obviously heard the shouting and wasn't sure what to do so he just strode past him and waited by the locked doors to be taken back to his room.

Back in his bedroom Sherlock rushed to the bathroom and shut the door, flicking the lock quickly he shot over to the toilet and bent his body in time to meet the wretches as he vomited up his lunch. His whole body shook as bile and saliva dripped from his chapped lips, with a last heave he sank down to his knees and turned his body to rest against the tile of the wall. Shakily exhaling he rested his head between his legs and forced his lungs to work normally instead of drawing in heaving breaths that made his fingers tingle and cheeks burn. Why did that damn doctor insist on bringing up what happened?! Why didn't he realise Sherlock didn't want to remember what happened, that it brought back feelings of clammy hands on his skin and a lilting Irish accent that had promised him so much but stripped him so bare.

Feeling his stomach heave again Sherlock struggling on to his hands and knees over the toilet bowl again before bringing up the last of the stomach acid and bile, his throat burning and sweat beading feverishly over his skin as he trembled and his elbows creaked in protest from the pressure of his body. Crawling towards the curtained area of the shower Sherlock reached up for the hot water tap and turned it on full before collapsing to the ground and scrubbing at the exposed flesh, he needed to get rid of the feelings of those hands, those lips. It was leaving whiskey scented smears of saliva all over him and he couldn't breathe against the onslaught of smell, his heart beat irregularly against his sternum in panic as the hot water scalded the exposed area of his skin.

Frantically he pulled off his shirt and cowered, still shivering beneath the spray as he pressed his cheek against the tile and tried to drown out and wash away the sloppy kisses he could feel across his spine and the hand sliding across his hips and concave stomach to rest above the waist band of his pants. The last thing he remembered before his body shut down in response to his panic was the soft whisper against water logged ears; '_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…' _

'Sherlock, Sherlock bloody hell what are you doing, Sherlock!' He was freezing cold and stiff, and someone was shouting his name stupidly close to his pounding head and rattling his bones roughly as they shook him. At least the contact was warm, Sherlock thought as his mind continued to drift and shut down on him. 'Dammit Sherlock, open your bloody eyes.' A sharp slap across his frozen cheek, stinging the skin.

Cracking an eye and swimming slowly back to consciousness Sherlock first noticed the concerned gaze of John, his warm eyes crinkled and worried against Lestrade's sterner ones that seemed to bore right through Sherlock and making him want to cringe and hide. Fighting against the instinct to turn away, he blinks sluggishly and pushes in to sitting position with Lestrade's help against the shower wall. 'Why am I wet… Did I shower?' the small bathroom smells like stomach acid and bile.

'What do you remember?' Lestrade asks, it's strange seeing the older man crouched on the floor in front of him, out of place with his weathered jeans and stylish shirt both damp around the front and knees.

Scrunching up his face Sherlock remembers sitting in Greg's office, and then nothing. 'I'd just been dropped off in your office.' Suddenly there's a towel and a blanket being wrapped around him, John is tucking them between his hands for him helping them to stop shake. When did John leave the room? Sherlock couldn't remember losing the gaze of those warm eyes that now looked at him with so much concern and compassion it was unnerving, especially as he didn't know what he was doing wet and clothed in the shower.

At least he was wearing his pants still, even if his top didn't seem to be anywhere within reach.

'You left my office two hours ago Sherlock.' He let those words sink in, where had those two hours gone? His teeth chattered and his muscles trembled, gooseflesh breaking out as he warmed up within the towel and blanket cacoon. 'John found you five minutes ago; you were passed out under the water.' Shaking his head Sherlock moved to stand up but his limbs were numb and uncoordinated from the cold and being locked in one position for so long. He had lost two whole hours, this hadn't happened since he had experimented that one time with a bottle of his brother's whiskey. Accepting Lestrade's assistance to come to a standing position Sherlock just stood there and swayed.

Blinking owlishly he looked around, trying to orient and centre his muddled brain again but nothing was making sense and he just felt horribly confused and cold. 'Wh-why don't I remember?' He stuttered, tongue thick and unused.

'It's called disassociation; the body shuts down the mind and blocks memory as a coping mechanism it's most commonly seen when the human body experiences or sees a traumatic experience. My guess is the little row we had back in my office may have triggered off something, almost like post-traumatic stress disorder and in response to this your body shut down and dissociated.' Lestrade was talking calmly as he led Sherlock through to the bedroom and sat him on the bed, accepting another towel from John who was standing by mutely with a stricken expression on his face and placed it over Sherlock's drooping locks of hair and ruffling a little to remove some moisture.

Unsure how to respond to the treatment he was receiving Sherlock just sat there mutely and blinked, trying and failing to process. 'This more then anything is reason to talk to me Sherlock, you have to stop fighting me on this and just do it or this is going to keep happening and only get worse. You do not want this to become a regular thing, I've had patients who dissociate and wake up in their cars hours away from home with no recollection of where they've been or what they've done- some people even badly hurt themselves or others.'

'I-I don't-t remember, all of it… just bits of pieces. I can't- won't talk about something I don't remember.' Sherlock admitted, biting his lip in defeat and avoiding all eye contact but acutely aware of John standing beside him, he could almost feel the pitying gaze on his face.

'You're going to have to, or this isn't going to get any better. Promise me next week, I'll give you that long- that'll you will at least try?'

Sherlock just nodded. His stomach was in knots and he couldn't trust himself to speak, so he stayed mute and let the motion of the towel still hiding his head be his answer.


	12. Lady of the Flowers

**Lady of the Flowers**

_'Scuse me  
I apologize  
He likes your attitude  
He tries it on for size  
He spends the afternoon  
Between your thighs  
How's that for gratitude  
I apologize_

John isn't sure how he ended up here, trying to navigate the halls of a mental hospital without being seen by the night staff and return to his bedroom hopefully without being noticed by his eccentric roommate or noticed missing during a routine check. He had been sure to prop his pillow between the sheets and make it look like he was just cocooned in them but it certainly wasn't fall proof and John didn't want to risk it much longer.

For the past week Sherlock had been moody and reclusive since John had found him shivering and asleep half naked under the weak stream of the shower head, it had spent John's head spinning trying to keep up with the mood swings that exploded from the younger youth. When Irene had approached him after a group three days ago he had been greatly relieved for her presence and change of scenery and conversation that wasn't wholly one sided give or take a few grunts or biting remarks. As much as he enjoyed being around Sherlock, some of the snide remarks or biting comebacks he had been giving John were starting to become a bit painful and tender. It seemed Sherlock wasn't against using his keen deductive skills to pick John apart when he felt the need to be left alone.

So when Irene had invited him back to the lounge room, where John had never been before he had gone along willingly and spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa with the pretty young woman and felt a burgeoning sense of normalcy. He could have almost shut his eyes and pretended they were at home on his own couch after a day at school and were just hanging out with crap telly on in the background for white noise as they had chatted.

Irene seemed like a lovely girl, someone John certainly would have approached in school given the chance. She was beautiful for one, naturally with full lips and high cheek bones a lot like Sherlock's with matching blue eyes to boot; though hers were warmer and less clinical the way they seemed to draw John right in.

They sat and spoke about school, their prospects in life and what they hoped for on the outside after discharge. Irene was excited to embark on a gap year and travel Europe on her own, she had been studying for her A levels whilst she was here and was aiming to get approved leave to sit her final exams.

'If you don't mind my asking, why are you here? You seem so well adjusted and put together.' John had jokingly asked, searching her face and lean body for any hidden answers that might reveal an answer. He had let his eyes linger a little longer than normal on thighs and legs where they were folded beneath her, appreciating the smooth milky white skin and muscle tone.

With a musical giggle that carried, Irene had blushed and ducked her head against John's inquiry. 'Being this well-adjusted comes with some neurotics.' Was all she had said, and John hadn't wanted to ruin the moment they were sharing by being more intrusive then he was welcome to be.

With a laugh in return John had shaken his head and agreed with her, talking about how difficult he usually got around big rugby games or tests at schools and drove his parents insane. It was all easy talk, nothing that was too difficult to follow through with or left John uneasy or questioning himself over. He had found of late when he spoke with Sherlock some things were off topic, and getting to know him a little better by asking questions he hadn't known where a sensitive subject had been what led to John receiving a verbal lashing from his friend.

Either way it hadn't taken long for things to pick up with Irene, they spent the quantity of the next three days in each other's company and progressively getting closer to the point of limbs brushing and faces reaching in unconsciously towards each other. John found himself wetting his lips more often around her, adjusting the uncomfortable tightness of his underwear around his groin on more than one occasion when Irene would teasingly brush a hand across his thigh before resting gracefully on his knee.

After having such tumultuous thoughts about his feelings and growing desire for his handsome roommate, John was more than happy for the welcoming touch of an attractive female against his clothed skin. It was something he was familiar with, a territory he had well-travelled and didn't feel the need to question the way he had with Sherlock.

Peeking around the corner of the hallways that broke the boys rooms apart from the girls John quickly tucked his head back behind the wall when a torch light flickered over the floor. He was running out of time to get back to his bed, and the material of his flannelette pyjamas was sticky and damp against his leg and becoming uncomfortable as it cooled. Swallowing against the growing regret brewing in his stomach John quickly darted out and moved in to his bedroom as fast as he could and softly clicked the door shut, leaning his head against the white wood and breathing out a deep breath of relief for having made it back.

Turning around he was thankful to see Sherlock still asleep, he looked so much younger and relaxed when he slept; his long lashes fanned against the dark circles under his eyes and his lips opened softly with a delicate snore that only Sherlock could have.

Tonight had been unexpected. John was still reeling even as his stomach turned against the realisation of what he had done. He had not meant to have sex with Irene; he had gone to her room simply under the pretence of simply sharing bodily contact and simply holding each other. That had quickly dissolved as soon as Irene had John wrapped in her arms and she started to pick him apart with her lips and things had moved forward from there. Sneaking in to the bathroom with a fresh pair of bottoms John changed and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, guilt and regret were making him pale with a contrasting blush high and rosy against his cheekbones, hollowed out from weight-loss brought on by stress and poor diet.

'What did you do?' He cursed his reflection before slipping back in to the bedroom and casting one last look at Sherlock before sliding beneath his blankets and falling in to a restless sleep that found him tossing and turning for most of the night. He was thankful at five-thirty in the morning Sherlock awoke and groggily sat up in bed and looking surprised to see John staring back at him.

'Did I wake you?' Sherlock asked through sleep thick lips, eyes crinkled as he scratched the back of his impossible curly mop. John shook his head and sat up as well and stretched his sore muscles, rubbing his chest as his heart gave an almighty thump and skip that left him aching and slightly breathless against the sudden intrusion. 'You're never awake this early, you grumble when they wake you up for breakfast.' Sherlock slid off the bed and padded to the bathroom.

When Sherlock came back out, John dared to ask a question. 'What can you tell me about Irene Adler?' He tried to sound as casual as he could as Sherlock stooped down to reach for a hoodie, he paused face scrunching up in confusion for a second before he pulled the garment on against the chilly morning.

'Is that the girl you have been avoiding me with?' Sherlock sat back down on his bed with a yawn. John just nodded; of course Sherlock would have picked up that bit of information. Not that he could be blamed for avoiding the obnoxious git. 'Eighteen, Nymphomaniac and manipulative. She's in here for sleeping with and blackmailing her psychology teacher with sexually explicit images to gain a passing grade despite poor attendance and grades. She also prefers women, and finds sexual interaction with men purely entertainment. You can see it in the way she handles men and herself, probably stems from past sexual abuse from a male close to her when she was younger. Bright and intelligent, issues with control and impulse. Hides her obvious insecurities behind her sexual interest.'

Holding up a hand with a grimace 'okay that will do. Thanks.' John mumbled and let his head drop in to his hands. How did he not see that coming? Nothing good ever seemed to come from asking Sherlock to deduce someone, good chance Sherlock had even managed to sneak a look at her file somehow, no way he had been able to glean that much just from looking at Irene.

'You slept with her.' John's head shot up and his face flamed a deep red, he was confused when he unwillingly met Sherlock's eyes and thought he saw hurt there for a minute… _that couldn't be right. _

'I-I didn't mean to.' Sherlock snorted. 'I didn't know she was a _sex addict_ or I never would have gone to her room at all, bloody hell what I have done.' Burying his head again John groaned and fell back on his mattress with a dramatic thump.

'Honestly why else would you have gone to her room, she is a female to whom you have been sharing close contact with for the past month and a half; were you just going to sit on top of the sheets and cuddle?' Letting a mumbled yes, John groaned against Sherlock's sarcastic snort. 'Are you saying you accidentally let her suck your cock and have sex with you?'

'Sherlock!' John buried his head in the blankets.

'You better hope she doesn't want anything from you John, she is very manipulative. Do you want to come with me and beg the night staff pathetically to let us up to the cafeteria for coffee?'

'God yes.' John rolled off the bed and pulled a cardigan on over his bedclothes and slumped off after Sherlock, grumbling the whole way up to the cafeteria. Apparently Sherlock's version of begging to be let up early consisted of swapping money for both cigarettes and access.

Sherlock wasn't hurt that John had slept with Irene. He wasn't. At least that was what he tried telling himself as they both stood silently and made themselves bitter cups of coffee with extra sweetener to try and wake up. It had shocked him to turn over and find John looking back at him, normally in the mornings it was just him and he took the moment to appreciate the state of utter relaxation that graced John's muscular face, the way his jaw loosened and his mouth hung open to release a small trail of drool that was dried white by the time Sherlock took in his features. The blonde of his eyelashes delicate against his tanned skin from so much time on a rugby field.

Realising that John had asked the question about Irene was because he had slept with her if the groan and dramatic way he had flopped back against the mattress had been any indication, Sherlock had felt a sting in his chest and a burn of jealous he that he didn't understand. He had been sharp and blunt with John over the past few days; unconsciously pushing his friend away when he ultimately he should have been enjoying the company. But it was hard not to fall back on bad habits of isolating himself when things got to be too much.

But for John to have gone off so easily and then just as easily fallen in to Irene's almost siren song hurt and tugged at him. So far John had seen and heard more about Sherlock than anyone else in his life, he was an easy going person who was easy and amiable and didn't take any effort to talk to. Sherlock even enjoyed his company, didn't mind the occasional touch of skin or limbs when they settled on the floor. It was comfortable.

In the end though, Sherlock knew it was his fault. He had brought his walls back up rapidly after John had found him pathetically cowering in the shower trying to wash phantom hands off his flesh, the lingering effects of a memory he had burned and rapidly tried to delete from his mind had kept sneaking in on him. It was affecting his sleep with unreachable nightmares that woke him through the night panicked and sweaty as he heaved gasping breaths around silent sobs he hoped wouldn't wake John. It had made him brittle and tightly wound, so he had become snappish and cruel in response to John trying to offer him assistance, a shoulder to lean on even one night when Sherlock had yelled out and woken to find John hovering over him with nervous eyes. He had been quick to snap off whatever first deduction about John had come to mind at the time and he had been quickly left alone to dwell on the left overs of his nightmares alone.

That night he had regretted being so mean straight away, as John had scuttled off like a scorned pet and he had been left to fall back to damp sheets and shiver on his own. He would have much preferred to have had John stay there, to sit up with him and touch shoulders and talk quietly. But instead he had laid there and tried to slow down his breathing and keep quiet until John's snores had filled the room again and he had escaped to the bathroom to sob in to his knees and scratch at the littered scars on his arm, desperate either for illicit drugs or the sharp throb and welling of blood as he tore in to himself.

It had been nights like that when he had been living at home with his parents that he would succumb to the cold bite of a razor blade he had stolen from his father's shaving kit, but back then all he had needed to worry about was the bullying at school that drove him in to deep depression and the mindless boredom of the classroom when he got too far ahead of the class. His mind rapidly fell apart landing him in the position of making friends with the wrong people and coming in to the right drugs that made everything that much more bearable.

But here on the ward he didn't have access to any of that when his mind started to cave in on itself and he couldn't put it back in order, all he had was John and now he had forced him away with his stupid big mouth that he could never keep closed.

'How do you sit out here every morning, its bloody freezing and I have body fat!' John complained as he shuffled deeper in to his cardigan against the chill of the crisp morning, the sky was a crystal blue that spoke of a promising day but without the sun at its full peak the breeze was cold from the night before. John sat down close to Sherlock, shivering as they huddled with their coffee mugs clutched between their hands for warmth.

Shrugging Sherlock put his mug between his bony thighs and reached for the cigarette behind his ear and put it in his mouth. 'Coffee and a cigarette raise your blood pressure and heart rate and spike your body temperature.' He mumbled around the smoke before lighting it and drawing back deeply. The first inhale of the day always made his head spin in the most pleasant way and he shut his eyes against the sway of his body as his lungs protested against the thick grey plume of smoke he easily exhaled in to the morning. He offered the cigarette to John on whim; bony pale finger tips a bright red against the bite of the cold making his nailbeds sickly blue.

'I don't think it's appropriate for a future doctor to start sucking on cancer sticks, but thanks.' John laughed, Sherlock felt him unconsciously lean a little closer to him. They were now pressed together from thigh to shoulder.

They stayed quiet as Sherlock blew smoke rings between the occasional mouthfuls of coffee; the stuff was truly awful here. He was almost willing to ask Mycroft to make an anonymous donation of a coffee machine for the patients lounge but didn't want to be left even more in his older brother's debt.

'I am sorry for being truly awful to you John, it is just a horrible way of coping when things get so hard and I am not accustomed to having a friend I need to be nice to. I believe I am still learning to realise when someone is trying to help me and not just being manipulative or for their own worth.' Sherlock blew out a long plume of grey smoke, the tendrils drifting lazily away from them.

For a minute he didn't think John would respond to his sudden apology, he had felt his shoulder tense up against him. 'It's okay Sherlock, just remember that sometimes words can really hurt whether you mean them to or not.' Their shoulders bumped as John accepted the apology. 'I don't want to get all parental or controlling here; but you need to talk to Lestrade. The guy honestly wants to help you, give him a chance and maybe you won't need to apologise for slipping up so much.'

Casting his eyes to the endless blue of the sky Sherlock sighed heavily. 'I don't know how to open myself up like that, I shut that part of myself up a long time ago John. The drugs…' He sighed. 'the drugs and the lifestyle I chose for myself changed me in a lot of ways and I don't think I have the ability to get any of it back; let alone the right too.'

'Of course you have the right to Sherlock, what makes you think you don't?' John had turned his head to face him now and their mouths were so close together it was almost distracting. Irene had been kissing those lips last night.

Looking away Sherlock shrugged. 'I lost my right to be vulnerable and open the moment I agreed to suck cock for a living; you can't allow emotions to get involved when you live like that. You shut off and see the next bloke as a way to get high and wind down; you don't process or go back to the drug den and cry in to your pillow or you will never make it. So I shut it all off and just learned to enjoy the moment as best as I could and move on.'

Sherlock's empty mug was suddenly pulled from his clammy palm before John replaced it with his own hand and squeezed. 'You don't live like that anymore Sherlock, it's time to move on from that and learn to open up all over again.' John squeezed his hand again. 'You have a friend now, I'll be here for you when things get hard but you need to at least try okay?'

Nodding Sherlock smiled softly down at their interlocked fingers.


	13. This Picture

**This Picture**

_Sometimes it's faded  
Disintegrated  
For fear of growing old  
Sometimes it's faded  
Assassinated  
For fear of growing old_

'What do you want from John Watson?' As soon as Sherlock had been on his own he had gone down to the lounge area and cornered Irene on her own, she was backed up against the bench of the small kitchenette with him crowding her personal space; he wasn't sure that it would work even with his height given her predisposition for bodily contact. But she looked thoroughly put out with him. 'There must be a reason you slept with him, I will not allow you to harm in any way.' Her mouth quirked up, eyebrows rising towards her hairline.

'Was quick to tell you weren't he now?' Irene stepped in closer to him, a hand coming up to rest on his sternum. 'I don't want anything from him, it is okay; was just a bit of fun between the sheets- feed the beast you know?' She ran her hand down his chest and rested her fingers teasingly on the waistband of his pants. A deep red blush climbed up his neck and Sherlock felt his cheeks burn. 'But you wouldn't know anything about being with a woman would you?' Irene leaned in closer, brushing her nose across his collarbone and neck making him shiver when her breath ghosted over his skin and raised gooseflesh on the surface.

Stepping away Sherlock looked down on her. 'Well you're hardly a woman though are you?' He lingered his gaze on her small breasts and girlish features. 'If I ever decide I feel the need for a woman's flesh against my own I'll be sure to look for a real one. Leave John alone.' He sniffed and walked away from her, noticing the hard look in her gaze of offense.

Going back to his bedroom Sherlock flopped down on the bed with a whoosh of air as he shifted around to find a comfortable spot, he really had to do something about his weight. It had never dropped this low before and he was finding it harder to get comfortable at night and during the day when he was seated; not to mention his clothes were now becoming unflattering on his bony frame and he didn't want to ask Mycroft to bring him in brand new clothes in a smaller size. Plus if he did that he would have less reason or ambition to gain any weight back at all. Best to just work on fitting back in to his normal ones.

Staring up at the tiled ceiling Sherlock thought back to what John had said to him this morning, and the way their hands had felt together- his own long, violinist fingers wrapped around John's thicker and sturdier ones.

When Lestrade next came for him would he be capable of opening up? Discussing why he had made the decision to leave a plush life of comfort and money behind for one of derelict and sex work for the streets and drugs? There was so much of it he had deleted from his memory, complete blocks he had erased so he didn't have to think about the feeling of eager hands groping at his crotch or slobbery mouths on his neck and chest. It would have been easier at that moment if he had just decided to go back home, apologise to his parents for his absence and go back to using in the background in a more controlled manner.

But the drugs had taken him well and truly by then, he didn't think he could have returned home to the scrutiny of his parents and the unrelenting control of his brother again. At least on the streets he had the ability to come and go from the house as he pleased and didn't have to answer to anyone, he had been free in a sense- not of the drugs but the restraints of family and society and he had relished in it. Being here on the locked ward brought back that old longing and need for the drugs again, but he was able to keep it at a maintainable itch that he could push to the back of his mind. Something he hadn't been able to do back then.

Had John meant it when he said he would be there for Sherlock? Nobody had ever promised him anything like that before, nobody had ever been his friend long enough to promise that. It almost made him uneasy; the thought of having someone in his life put in that much faith in him. His brother had always told him sentiment and caring was a one way ticket to trouble and that it got you nowhere quickly. But John seemed to be sincere and maybe, just maybe Sherlock was willing enough to give it a go and let him in.

Not to mention John had now seen so much of him by accident, the bony planes of his body to the raised keloid scars on his arms, even in the throes of an accidental overdose and raving out of his mind. John was still here and willing to be his friend.

Granted outside of the psych ward there would never have been a chance between them, John most likely would have been a part of the group that would regularly tear shreds from Sherlock if they'd attended the same school and Sherlock would have loathed him for it. But in here they each had a chance; they may as well already be stripped bare for the pure sake of being in a psychiatric ward.

At the same time though Sherlock was still doubtful, John hadn't seen him in his full element yet. Unable to keep his mouth closed, always getting in to trouble and drawing it to him, his morbid fascination with death and the body and the mess he created. The way he could pick apart a person almost violently with his words, in a deliberate attempt to hurt them. He was cruel, cold and calculating. Did John deserve to be burdened with a friendship from him? John was warm and caring and wanted to fix people, Sherlock didn't want to damage that or tarnish the warmth in John.

Growling in frustration Sherlock grabbed his curls and pulled down on them. Why couldn't his brain just shut up for five fucking minutes and give him time to himself to just exist like a normal person? Why did it always have to be picking and pulling things a part?

'You alright there Sherlock?' Susie's head was poking in the door, her normally perky smile replaced by a concerned furrow that knitted together her brow. She moved further in to the room and settled herself on the bed beside Sherlock, taking his hands away from his hair and holding them down. 'Want to talk about it?'

Shaking his head Sherlock wished she would go away. 'I just want to be left alone, thank you Susie.' He pulled his hands away and sat up.

'Come on Sherlock how long are you going to keep this up?' Susie twisted on the bed to face him better. 'Let's cut the bullshit yeah?' the words were obviously foreign and strange on her lips but Susie's face was determined. Sherlock smirked.

'Why would I waste my time talking about my problems with somebody who has no idea about what I am going through? You were a popular girl in high school you never went without or had to spend time on your own, you had a hive of friends buzzing around you all the time. Nobody understood when you announced you planned on working in mental health, because you always kept your own struggles to yourself. But not anymore, you see a psychiatrist whom you saw last night and told you to start standing up for yourself, to step out of your restrictive insecurities which you feel are stopping you from doing your job properly.

'You are uncomfortable being so forward and brash with me, but at the same time you are determined. Congratulations on stepping out of your comfort zone now please leave.' Sherlock snapped, voice harsh and clinical as he picked apart the young nurse sitting in front of him. Her mouth was slightly open and a small swell of pink was blossoming behind her pale blush and foundation.

To his shock, Susie laughed. 'Now I understand why the other nurses won't come near you.' She shook her head. 'But you don't scare me off Sherlock Holmes no matter how intrusive you are. Now suck up your own pride and tell me what's the matter; I'm not here to familiarise with you and what you are going through otherwise I'd be a patient not a nurse. I am here to help you.' She crossed her legs to make a point she wasn't leaving.

With a sigh Sherlock gave in; his thoughts still swirling and parading in his brain in a relentless stream of abusive comments and questions that left him reeling. 'I've never had a friend before, not even in my younger years at primary school. I was slow to start talking, and then when I did start I didn't know when to keep my mouth shut or how to control what was coming to the front of my brain at the time so not many people liked me. But for some reason I find myself becoming friends with John Watson and I don't know what to do about that, how to act or what to say. I have spent the past week tearing him down due to my moods being low, but he still wants to remain friends with me and I don't understand that. I can't offer him what he wants or needs in a friend.'

'What makes you think you can't be his friend?' Susie looked confused.

'I am not like everyone else, I don't enjoy sharing bodily contact or talking about nonsense and watching crap tele all the time or playing games of rugby or going down to the pub for drinks. All things that a teenager of John's age enjoys doing, he is open and warm and I am closed off and cold. I almost feel like he doesn't deserve to be around someone like me that cannot return what he wants.' Sherlock didn't know if any of this was even making sense, it didn't inside his head. He was confused and unsure of what he wanted.

Bringing his hands back to his head he buried them deep in his curls and scratched at his scalp. Susie quickly reached forward and took his hands again, her small ones encapsulating them and squeezing. This was the second time someone had held his hands in a short period of time; Sherlock didn't know what to make of that. 'I think the important question here is do you want to be his friend?'

Sherlock reeled back; of course he did. He just didn't know how to be a friend in return without letting John down when he couldn't deliver on that front or he ended up hurting him in response to something he did or said. In here there was no concern about Sherlock making mistakes; he didn't have access to the tools he regularly used to break himself down there was only his own acerbic tongue and his biting deductions that could threaten to get in the way of what they already had. That and the off chance that Sherlock made the mistake to go back to Anderson or the orderly for drugs that he so desperately craved right now, to try and make some sort of sense of his muddled thoughts and racing brain. He was almost desperate for some quiet inside his skull; it was pound and overbearing.

'I want to be his friend, he has made the promise to be there for me no matter what and I believe we will maintain the contact of our bond even on the outside of these walls where we are both contained, but I fear my destructive lifestyle will damage him and ruin everything.' Sherlock looked away, ashamed.

Susie let go of one of his hands and brought his face back to hers. 'You are who you are Sherlock; nobody can change you for the good or bad and nobody should ever force you to be someone different. Ever. But one thing you can do is learn how to go from self-destructive habits to something different with a more positive outcome. You never know what might happen, if you start speaking and contributing in therapy you might learn some new skills to stop you from going back to the drugs or harming yourself in other ways.' She rubbed a finger soothingly over his cheekbone, almost matronly. 'Until you start working on everything that has gone wrong in the past and breaking that down to form healthier coping mechanisms you will say afraid. But until then John has stayed by your side and he will continue to okay? Friendships are hardy things; they usually always find ways to work.'

Nodding Sherlock found himself almost leaning in to Susie's touch, it was almost soothing and comforting to be touched like that. Something his own mother had stopped doing as soon as she deemed him too old for such silly things. He felt better now, getting the mess out of his head but he was still unsure of where he stood in the progression of friendship with John. He figured it was something that would probably always have him baffled. It was a common ground for him.

'Thank you Susie.' He smiled at her and she withdrew her hands and he almost keened to have the contact back but restrained himself. She stood up and patted him on the shoulder.

'Is there anything else I can do for you?' He shook his head and she nodded and walked out, leaving the door ajar so she could peer in when she needed to. Sherlock flopped back down on the bed and closed his eyes. Maybe he could try and have a nap.


	14. The Never Ending Why

**The Never Ending Why**

_The sound of silence grows  
As spiders kissing fly  
And the tumor becomes a rhyme  
But the kids are doing fine_

Loitering in the lounge room with a warm of cup of tea cradled in his hands John sank back in to the cushions of the sofa and sighed, he had gone back in to his room after his sessions with Lestrade but Sherlock had been out to the world on his bed snoring softly and he hadn't wanted to disturb him, so he had retreated to the common room. He enjoyed the tranquil environment of the open room, the other patients were spread around on the tables and chairs with the television on in the background, some were colouring in or playing a card game or just chatting idly to each other.

Sofa cushions dipped beside him and he looked around to face Irene, his cheeks burning red as he remembered the night before. She was smiling coyly at him and leaning forward, resting a hand beside John's thigh. 'You're little pup is very protective of you, you know?' She sat back, smirking. 'Nice of you to share our little indulgence last night, pretty quick to let it slip.' John had the modesty to blush and look away, causing Irene to chuckle. 'It's okay, I don't mind.'

'Last night was a big mistake, I am so sorry.' John grimaced. 'I never should have come in to your room.' He looked up, surprised to see Irene giving him a condescending look. 'What?' He asked, confused.

Irene leaned back against the sofa arm. 'You apologise for sleeping with me but not for sharing that intimate information with Sherlock? Or even the fact that he approached me about it?' She titled her head to the side and studied him curiously, John felt himself squirm underneath her attentive gaze. She was like the female version of Sherlock. Had that been why he had so readily slept with her? The striking resemblance to his roommate?

'What did he say?' He asked, trying to guide her attention away from him, changing the subject.

'Oh not too much, just told me to stay away from you.' She waved her hand with disinterest. 'Wanted to make sure I didn't want anything from you, that last night was purely platonic. I think he has a little crush on you, could see it from a mile away and trust me I _know_.' She pat his knee and squeezed it lightly, letting her warm hand rest there for a moment.

Shifting uncomfortably John coughed and looked away, bringing his tea cup up to his lips and taking a deliberate mouthful of the scalding liquid so he didn't have to respond. John hoped that if he looked away for long enough that Irene might just disappear and leave him alone, but as a three more awkward minutes ticked by she stayed by his side with her hand still resting on his knee. She coughed delicately and he finally gave in and looked back around. 'Oh I see.' She said softly, watching him under hooded eyes and long lashes.

'Do you?' He mumbled, rotating the cup in his hands and holding her gaze.

'You like him too, but you aren't gay and you don't understand where these feelings are coming from because you know on the outside you two wouldn't stand a chance or even dare talk to each other in a social setting.' Embarrassment burnt hot against John's cheeks again. Irene withdrew her hand and tutted. 'He likes you too you know.' John felt his eyes go wide and his mouth drop open in preparation to protest and tell Irene that she was wrong but he couldn't find it within himself to protest.

Secretly his heart had swelled at the thought that Sherlock liked him in return, but Irene was right that on the outside there was no chance for the two of them. Who was to say what would happen when they were discharged and they went back to their normal lives. What would happen if Sherlock decided to stay on the streets and in sex work? Would there even be a place in his life for John?

'We had fun Johnny boy, but I think you need to grow some real balls and go after what you want because we both know it's not me.' With a final pat to the knee John was gone and the lingering scent of Irene's perfume and her quiet words were all he had to know she had even been there.

Suddenly uninterested in his cup of tea John stood up and shuffled over to the little sink and poured the rest of the dark liquid down the drain and rinsed out the cup and left it on the drain for the kitchen staff to collect. He felt sightly inspired by Irene's words, to go in to the bedroom and wake Sherlock to confess his feelings. But his feet seemed rooted to the spot and his brain frozen in fear of rejection and the unknown.

John had been thinking a lot at night, about whether or not this was simply something spurred on by his recent touch with the devil and death and his plummeting self-worth and will to be alive. What if he was using Sherlock as a reason to stay alive, a project to fix and make right so he had something to strive toward? Were his feelings honest ones? Irene was right that on the outside they wouldn't have even cast an eye towards each other; they were too different.

Scrubbing his hands through his hair John turned and looked around the common room with an exasperated sigh before heading off towards the boy's hall and his bedroom. Smiling at the nurses through the observation window as he passed by, John paused uncertainly with his hand against the door before pushing forward and entering.

Tangled up in the covers, tossing and turning Sherlock mumbled in his sleep and pushed his hands against the mattress and sliding his body towards the edge. His forehead was scrunched up in pain and glistening with sweat. Realising what a nightmare looked like from personal experience John moved forward in two quick strides and knelt down beside Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. Shaking the bony joint softly he called out Sherlock's name but got no response just a bit more mumbling as his body shifted closer and closer to the edge of the bed. 'Sherlock mate come on you're going to fall off in a minute.' Just as he spoke the words he reached out too late as Sherlock gave one last violent shove and disappeared with a loud thump and startled shout.

Darting over the bed John squatted down beside a stunned Sherlock who looked like a spooked owl caught in the headlights as he looked around in confusion, mouth hanging open as he panted heavily and clutched at his chest. 'Hey it's alright you were having a nightmare.' John said, keeping his voice low and calm as Sherlock shot his eyes to John and fixed on him. 'That's right look at me, you're okay.' His dad would do this for him, when he came home from the hospital and started having flashbacks from the accident. He called it grounding.

Sherlock's hand shot out and clutched the material of John's shirt, panicked eyes not leaving his own as sweat bled through the material of his t-shirt. 'Come on Sherlock, you with me?' Sherlock nodded mouth still open as he struggled to get his breathing back under control.

'John?' He just nodded, trying to decide whether he should get up and find a nurse or not. Sherlock was slowly coming back around again, but his eyes were wild and his breathing erratic. 'Did I wake you?' He mumbled, leaving John's gaze and looking around as he reoriented himself.

'It's the afternoon Sherlock; you fell asleep and had a nightmare but you're okay now.' Sherlock nodded and leaned his head against John's chest, they were close enough to each other that John could feel Sherlock's breath on his chest and smell the saltiness of sweat and sleep in his unruly curls. 'You're okay.' He mumbled again, putting his cheek against the dark head of hair.

They sat like that for a moment before Sherlock brought his head level with John's, staring in to his eyes John watched as Sherlock licked his lips. He imagined what it would feel like to bring his own lips down and press them against the supple ones in front of him, how that cupids bow would feel against his thinner upper lip and Sherlock's mouth would taste like; if it would be warm and wet or dry from the nightmare. Unconsciously John sought out the contact of their foreheads and noses before closing his eyes and taking the dive.

For a moment Sherlock froze against the pressure of John pressing their lips together but as he was about to pull away Sherlock returned the gesture and uncurled his hand from John's shirt to press into his chest as the kiss deepened. Their lips opened and Sherlock welcomed John's tongue with his own, his mouth _was _warm as they danced through it.

When they parted for air John opened his eyes to see Sherlock panting again, the misty green blue hues of his iris gone behind the black of his pupil blown in arousal and attraction that was all for John, which set his heart fluttering and his stomach churning in excitement as he moved back in for another passionate kiss. Bringing his clammy hands up he grasped Sherlock's forearms and lowered them to the ground, hidden between the two beds from any prying eyes as they deepened the kiss.

A growing pool of heat was spreading in his stomach and crawling through his waistline, resting in his groin and causing a tent against the crotch of his track pants as he pressed his body against Sherlock's and shivering against the intense heat of the lithe body beneath him. Panting himself now John moved his head up to press kisses against the sharp alabaster cheekbones, and softer delicate ones teasingly on plump teased lips that pouted towards him for more intimate ones. They were both breathing deeply as they looked in to each other's eyes, lust soaked and filled with desire for one another.

'I can't believe I waited so long to do that.' John mumbled, nestling his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone and nuzzling his neckline, pressing butterfly kisses there and smiling against the flush skin and the way Sherlock squirmed beneath him, arching his back in need and throwing his head back with a little groan for more. It nearly sent John undone to prop himself up on his hands and knees over the younger man, looking down on him spread out beneath him with a rosy flush climbing up his neck and painting his pale cheeks, chest heaving as he stared back up at John with pure need. 'I didn't know if you would want me to.'

Rolling his eyes Sherlock sat up on his elbows so their faces were close again. 'I've been thinking about you all day John, all week. I had my doubts though; you were obviously a straight male which you made obvious when you slept with Irene…' He tapered off, casting his eyes to the side. 'I don't want to hurt you though, John, it's already obvious I am not like everyone else and I don't know if I can give you what you want.' A stray tear slipped down his cheek and John reached up to catch it and wipe it away.

Leaning forward he pressed a kiss where the tear had fallen. 'This will be new to both of us; I don't know how to be with a guy in a relationship and lord knows I am not perfect or normal myself anymore.' He pressed another kiss. 'But we won't know if we don't give this a go and this is something don't even try to deny that!' John chastised when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

'You really think this could work out?' Sherlock looked so shy and insecure in that moment and it broke John's heart to remember where they were and what they had each been through that put these thoughts in their heads in the first place. He wanted to make sure Sherlock never looked that way again; it would be his new mission in life to keep him safe and make sure he knew he was loved just the way he was… maybe with a little more meat on his bones though.

'We'll make it work, it's not like we have a lot else to do in this place anyway as sudden as it all is but I'm glad it's all out in the open now.' John moved to one side of Sherlock and laid down beside him, hip to hip and reached for his hand, entwining their fingers together. 'I want to make it work now that I know you feel the same way about me.' He received a hum in response as they both fell silent and just shared each other's closeness and company their arousal forgotten about for the moment as they just shared in their revelations.

An hour or so later they finally stirred from their position on the hard carpet and stood up together, hands still clutched together as John pulled Sherlock around and hugged him tight as they wrapped their arms around each other and shared a few more passionate kisses that left them reeling. John breathed against Sherlock's neck, almost a head shorter as his nose brushed against the pale collarbone. He couldn't believe this morning he had gone from shagging a female patient he had only met to kissing another bloke and declaring he had feelings for him and deciding to progress a relationship.

'We should probably head up for dinner.' John mumbled regretfully. He didn't want to leave Sherlock's embrace but they eventually parted, walking side by side as they headed towards the stairs. John sent a sidelong glance at Sherlock and smiled sloppily at the serene look on his new boyfriends face before opening the stairway door for him and following behind him appreciatively up the stairs.


	15. Pure Morning

**Pure Morning**

_A friend in need's a friend indeed,  
A friend who bleeds is better,  
My friend confessed she passed the test,  
And we will never sever, _

Exhilarating. Tentative. Amazing.

If John had been asked to explain the past week since he had taken the plunge and kissed Sherlock and expressed his feelings for the younger teenager those would be the words he would have used. It had been like exploring foreign territory from another planet.

Where John was familiar with full supple hips and rounded curves of breasts, Sherlock was tight expanses of flat toned muscle and bony depths that John enjoyed exploring with his lips; hidden between their beds on a scratchy blanket where he would spread Sherlock out and kiss paths across his pale chest and down his scrawny abdomen. The noises he would receive in return for his careful mapping out of the handsome male physique drove him insane, they were deep and guttural the same way that voice was a lulling baritone when Sherlock spoke. John would make it his mission every time he got the chance to bring out those sounds.

In the first few days John had been unsure. Sherlock had been open and upfront with him about the past year of his life and what he had done with his body for money, leaving him unsure how signs of affection or touch would be received but Sherlock practically purred against his ministrations and pushed his body into the touches and kisses, giving John his all and it was beautiful.

Surprisingly it was himself that struggled with receiving the touches, he was sensitive and unsure of what he would enjoy or how he should react so he found himself, on the first few occasions pulling away or tensing up when Sherlock would rub a hand over his back or place those elegant hands over his ass and squeeze and massage appreciatively as they kissed. He had let out an embarrassingly undignified gasp when Sherlock had first done that, he had been sure the resounding blush had burned his cheeks for the rest of the day after that.

But he was coming to enjoy it all now; Sherlock seemed to know what to do with his mouth ad his hands when it came to male body and John was becoming more and more willing to allow him the lead. There were many pairs of stashed boxer briefs that were now stained or ruined hidden deep in his gym bag due to the wonderful delight that was Sherlock's mouth and tongue. The younger man was certainly talented, while John was self-conscious and unsure when he returned the favour, not knowing exactly what to do with his mouth. The first time he had tried to deep throat Sherlock he had gagged and almost thrown up, it was definitely something he would need to adjust to if this was going to go anywhere.

The only thing concerning John was sometimes Sherlock's eyes glazed over or he looked far away in the moment like he was somewhere else and his face would whiten and his hands would tense where they were or he would shudder. Whenever John tried to ask him about it he would become cold and distant or rapidly move to distract him from what had just happened. It worried John and he didn't know what to do about it, making him sloppy and unsure of himself at times when he would Sherlock or mutter small pleasantries to him.

Sitting back on his bed thinking, a forgotten book between his open legs John looked to the door, waiting for Sherlock to come back from the visit with his brother in the group room. This morning he had crawled in to Sherlock's bed with him and wrapped his arms around the thin frame and snuggled his head against his neck and collarbone and whispered '_morning gorgeous,'_ and Sherlock had gone completely stiff against him before twisting out of his grasp and shoving against John knocking them both off the bed.

In true Sherlock fashion he had shrugged it off and apologised, refusing to talk about it again after that and they had eaten their breakfast in silence as Sherlock brooded and picked at his measly breakfast. John didn't know what to think about it all, there was obviously something he wasn't being told but he didn't know how to approach him about it, get him to open up.

It looked like Sherlock was having a hard enough time talking about whatever it was with Lestrade, he had come back to their bedroom during the week after his session with puffy red eyes and fallen on to his bed and lay comatose for the rest of the day refusing to even come up for dinner or let John touch him in anyway. He had just curled up in a ball and eventually fallen asleep, only to wake up with a strangled yell from a nightmare; shaking and drenched in sweat. He had let John hold him then; he'd curled up in his arms and just lay there breathing deeply and played with a thread on John's jumper.

Whatever it was must have something to do with his time on the streets and possibly with the work, maybe even the reason he had attempted to kill himself. It frustrated John that he had no idea how to handle or approach this.

Times like this he wished he had Harry here, even though they drove each other insane she had always been there for John when he had needed her and offered some of the best advice when it came to relationships. It had probably helped that she had been a lesbian and could tell John what it was that a girl wanted in return, but she had seemed to have a thorough understanding of emotions that John didn't. Harry would certainly know how to handle what was happening with Sherlock. She would probably also mock him and laugh at him for being gay.

John smiled.

He wondered what his mum would think, both her children growing up to be gay. God; she would have probably cried and then hugged them both in acceptance. John's heart hurt at the fact his mum would never get to see him grow up. Everything had been lost in that accident. A pang of guilt went through him as he realised he hadn't thought about his mum or sister for a long time, he had been too caught up in his new relationship with Sherlock to think of them. How could he have been so selfish?

Folding his legs up to his chest he leant his forehead on his knees and internally berated himself for being so selfish, how could he have let them out of his mind for so long without a second thought? What right did he have? They would never get to be happy or experience love or touch again and here he was completely self-absorbed in the new sensations and feelings.

In their sessions together Lestrade had been adamant he was to move on with his life that it was normal and natural for him to move on from the event, it was okay to experience happiness and joy because his dead family wouldn't want him to stop living just because he had lost them. But how was he meant to get past these crippling moments when they came back to the forefront of his mind with a vengeance? He couldn't handle the fact that they would never get to meet Sherlock, or be there for him when he had troubles or see him attend university and make a life for himself.

Growling in anger at himself he ground his eyes into the knobby rounds of his kneecaps until he saw stars as penance, silently apologising to his mum and sister for forgetting about them and that it wouldn't happen again. When they had first passed away he had taken to imagining them in his head and having conversations with them. It had gotten him through some of the more difficult weeks in the hospital after the accident. Focusing he tried to draw up an image of his mum, and for a panicked moment felt his heart clench when he struggled to remember exactly what she looked like but then she was there; smiling at him broadly in his mind and he breathed a sigh of relief and smiled in to his lap. Harry stepped up beside her and they stood before him smiling and laughing, a beachfront behind them.

This was his favourite memory to remember them in, the sun shining down on them and the cacophony of the waves crashing against sandy banks of the beach in the background mingled with the caws of seagulls and laughter of other families on the sand. '_Hi mum, Harry. I have someone I want you to meet, I wish you could have met him in real life he's fantastic.'_ John smiled at them, conjuring a mental image of Sherlock beside him and taking his hand, walking towards his family. '_Sherlock this is Harry and my mum._' They both beamed at him and John smiled wetly in to his knees.

A tap on the shoulder startled him and he looked up through damp eyes to see Lestrade leaning over him, eyebrows scrunched together in concern. 'I said your name a few times at the door but you weren't responding, sorry to startle you.' He turned his body to sit on the end of John's bed and clasped his hands together to hang between his open legs; relaxed as he smiled briefly at John before looking away and giving him time to quickly wipe his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve.

'I was just thinking about my mum and Harry, guess I got caught up in it all.' John smiled weakly, dropping his legs down to cross them lightly on the bed. 'I thought I didn't see you again till next week?' He asked, unsure why Greg was here.

'Well I was writing up some notes for ward round on Monday, and what with the weekend coming up and that I thought maybe you might like to give some escorted leave a go with your father?' Lestrade asked. 'You've been making some pretty decent progress since you got here; you aren't a silly boy John you know what you're doing.' John looked back in shock, trying to imagine how good it would feel to be outside of these walls. It was a both alarming and promising thought. 'I think it's time we test you a little, get you out and about again and transitioning back to home. Trust me this isn't a decision I have made lightly, I am putting a lot of trust in you by doing this and it will be a lengthy adjustment period before you're allowed on your own again, but it's time to step out and test the waters.'

John didn't know how to react to this, it wasn't something he had been expecting or had even thought about until now. When he had first been admitted all he had been able to think about was going home, but that had just been to try and end it all again. This time those thoughts weren't as prominent, and he was able to rationalise with himself that dying wasn't the answer to everything. It was just a bit faltering that this had come at the exact same moment he was hating himself for forgetting his mum and Harry. It had him hesitant to agree, even if he knew Lestrade was right and he was eager to push himself to get out and about again.

Now that the offer was there he was keen to jump at the chance and be at home again, even if it was under his dad's constant supervision. The fear was easy enough to push to the back of his mind at the prospect of eating real food and sitting on his own sofa and just being at home. 'How does it all work?' John asked, becoming a little excited.

'Well it would only be for around, say- two to three hours to start with?' John nodded. 'Your dad would pick you up; sign you out after he was briefed on a few basic instructions to not leave you unattended and the likes. You'll be free to come back early if you find everything a bit too much or given a number for the ward if you just need to try and talk yourself through a tough moment.' Nodding John felt a bit queasy, it all sounded promising but he was worried at the same time. He didn't want to need to come back early or phone up the ward, he was nervous that things wouldn't be the same.

Swallowing John smiled and nodded again, searching for his voice. 'Nobody outside knows where I am but my dad, he told all my mates I was on a holiday with family in the country guess I'm a bit sceptical as to how I will be welcomed back at home. I can't exactly live the same lifestyle anymore…'

'We can discuss that a little more in our next session, this weekend I just want you to go home and spend a little time there and nothing else. You don't want to jump right in to social aspects before you're ready or you could set yourself back a fair bit there.' Lestrade smiled at John and clapped him on the knee. 'I'll notify the nurses of the change in your leave status so there are no issues over the weekend and give your dad a call to arrange a time that will suit him.' Lestrade stood up and his knees popped, John let out a breathy sigh of nerves. 'I'll get one of the nurses to let you know when your dad will be arriving so you can be ready, now remember you aren't to go anywhere but home understood? Don't go swimming in troubled waters you aren't ready to managed yet.'

'Yeah 'course not, just home. Can I stop at a burger place for some real food though?' Lestrade barked out a laugh.

'As long as your dad stays with you that shouldn't be a problem, and no trying to get away with anything either, I will be telling your dad everything I've just told you.' Smiling cheekily John just nodded again and said thank you, he was happy for this chance.

Shortly after Lestrade had come and gone, Sherlock came back in and threw himself down on the end of John's bed with a huff. 'God my brother can be an insufferable git, so oppressive.' He huffed before rolling on to his stomach and facing John with half lidded eyes. There was so much going on in John's head he didn't know how to react, his blossoming relationship with Sherlock, failing to remember his family much that week and then the prospect of going home for a few hours and now that his new boyfriend was in front of him a solid ball of guilt that dropped in to his stomach.

How long would it be until Sherlock got to this point? Where he was allowed to leave the unit and spend time at home, or wherever he was going after this. He suddenly felt even more selfish for thinking so much about himself. 'What's wrong?' Sherlock asked, breaking through his self-admonishing thoughts with concerned eyes and a cold hand on his ankle.

'Nothing I should be happy actually, I get to go home for a little on the weekend.' John said, looking away guiltily. 'But there's just so much other stuff going on I don't really know what to make of it all.'

'Do you want to talk about it?' Despite his ill mannerisms and lack of empathy Sherlock had proved himself to be a good listener and gave even better advice, John often found himself just talking at Sherlock at night time to clear out the jumble in his head and taking in the offers of advice he got in return.

'My family… Or more Harry and mum, I didn't think about them much this week because I've been enjoying my time with you and that got me feeling guilty and then some because at the same time I realised you'll never meet them and Harry won't get to give me grief for being with a bloke and it's all just back full circle to my being alive when they aren't. I just can't shake all this guilt and what makes me so special I get to cheat death twice when we had to bury them.'

Sherlock crawled up the bed and laid his head on John's knee, nuzzling there. 'You know I am a man of science John, and cannot tell you why you survived but only that I am glad you did. As for the rest I can only venture that your mother and sister would not want you to waste this chance and to move on accurately with your life. And I am meeting them every day through your memory of them John, I am sure they live on through you very well.' Sherlock propped up on his elbows and pressed a kiss to John's cheek. 'But that's not all.'

Everything sounded so simple when Sherlock spoke, John felt almost foolish for allowing his head to get so caught up on everything but Sherlock did have a knack for seeing everything so rationally. 'I'd rather not talk about the rest.' He leant his forehead against a pale one, breathing in the scent of nicotine and coffee.

'Suit yourself.' Sherlock dropped back down to John's lap with a sigh and closed his eyes. John smiled down at him, wondering where this relationship could possibly go.


	16. Burger King

**Burger Queen**

_Slightly bemused by his lack of direction  
Hey You Hey You  
Chooses his clothes to match his pallid complexion  
Hey You Hey You  
Brought to this world by cesarean section  
Hey You Hey You  
Now it takes him all day just to get an erection_

It had been a long time since Sherlock had felt the sting of lonely isolation; he had been happy to sit or lay alone and ride out the ride of a high or comedown, or simply the challenges of the day when he had come home from school, before he had moved to the streets. But now that he had company he yearned for and enjoyed the touch and emotion of in John, he felt the vacant space left behind in the sterile white bedroom. The silence was almost insufferable without another person's breathing or talking. How had he fallen so hard for one John Watson so quickly?

Rolling over on the bed Sherlock huffed and shifted around, struggling to get comfortable against the protrusion of his bones against the mattress. He needed to work a bit harder at gaining back some weight; he was surprised John would even hold him at night when they shared a blanket between the beds. His body was so repulsive now, eaten away by drugs and a life on the street.

There had been a small amount of jealousy when John had kissed him goodbye an hour ago, the fact that he got to go outside and experience freedom and life outside these walls had made him bitter for a moment. But he had pushed it aside rapidly and forced himself to be happy for John, but now the bitterness was creeping back in for the fact that he was alone and he wanted the others company and hated himself for it. He didn't like the fact that he had suddenly become so reliant upon John's presence, but it was helping him get through this and giving him something to look forward to in the future if they lasted.

Sherlock had never had this opportunity before, to have both a friend and partner. He only hoped he wasn't making a tossup of it all. There was a big difference between touching and holding someone for emotion up against a paid fondle in the back of a car. There was endearment in holding John, in leaning in to his touch and the embrace of his arms and letting his body melt against the others warmth and sharing their heartbeats.

No matter how foreign it was Sherlock felt himself gravitating towards it anyway and this morning he was missing it, leaving him grumpier then normal so when the door to his room opened he didn't even bother to lift his head from the pillow, just mumbled for them to go away. That was why he jumped in shock when a pair of knees settled down either side of his waist and a pressure landed on the small of his back, a hand between his shoulder blades pressing him in to the bed. '_I've been waiting for this day,'_ Sherlock stiffened 'waiting for little Johnny boy to give us some time alone.' Andersons face was close to his ear, breath brushing the back of Sherlock's curls and making his body tense and shiver against the sensation. He felt a cold hand slip between the gap his concave stomach and protruding hips left against the mattress and settle on the hem of his pyjama pants. 'Don't pretend you haven't missed me.'

'Get off me or I will force you off me.' Sherlock hissed, bracing his arms against the pillows to push up with all his strength. His skin was crawling and his stomach was seconds away from revolting against the intrusion on his body.

Anderson almost purred against the threat of violence and Sherlock had to swallow in revolt; his memory supplying him with another voice and smaller hand against his flesh. 'Don't tease me, you'll get something out of this as well Sherly just name it and I can have it in on Monday.' Bucking his hips and pushing up from the bed Sherlock rolled his hips and dislodged Anderson, he didn't want to hear anymore.

'I am not doing that anymore, I made it more than clear to you when John tried to break your nose now get out of my room!' Sherlock growled, standing up and pushing Anderson towards the door. Anderson twirled around and pushed him back, stepping in to the space he had created and forcing Sherlock against the wall with a hand on his neck.

'Not so brave without your little pet are you?' Anderson sneered, spittle hitting Sherlock's cheek he was so close. 'I will get what I came for!' He groped Sherlock through his pants, rubbing him roughly before grabbing him by the shoulders and twirling him around to slam face first in to the wall. Grunting Sherlock struggled against the hand on the small of his hips and the lips pressing in to the exposed skin of his neck and shoulders- he was going to be sick.

Swinging his head back sharply he winced when his skull connected with Anderson's chin and sent him staggering backwards. Pushing away from the wall, Sherlock grabbed him and shoved him towards the door. Anderson reacted with a wild swing of his fist, catching Sherlock on the cheek before they wrestled on the floor, both struggling to regain dominance over the other.

Gaining the upper hand Sherlock brought his fist back but lost all momentum when Anderson spat in his face, a mixture of blood and saliva. Repulsed Sherlock dragged a hand across his face and barely had time to draw a breath before all the air in his body was forced out of his mouth by a large fist in his stomach. Slumping to the ground with a winded wheeze, Sherlock curled around his burning abdomen and battled his watering eyes from showing any signs of weakness. Anderson wasted no time in striking while he was down, forcing him on to his stomach again and kneeling on the small of his back so he couldn't get his breath back and bearing down with all his weight.

It was suffocating and Sherlock couldn't breathe, he slammed his hands on the ground desperately and twisted his hips to try and dislodge Anderson but he was too dizzy. 'Say you want me and I'll get off you.' He hissed, keeping his face clear of the back of Sherlock's flailing head. 'Say it!'

'I can't breathe!' Sherlock's voice was hoarse, strained from lack of oxygen. Anderson moved his knee higher up his back over his ribcage and pressed down threateningly and pushed Sherlock's face in to the carpet and grounding it down against the rough thread. He wouldn't say it; he'd rather die than allow himself to stoop to that level of grovelling again. _He couldn't._

_"__Say you want daddy Sherly, say you love me."_

The words echoed through his head and Sherlock felt himself go stiff as his heart thumped erratically against the carpet and his throat constricted around a strangled shout that almost echoed around the room. Anderson got off him quickly and moved behind the door as Sherlock panted on the ground, moving to his side to get his breath back before forcing himself up on shaky limbs and standing.

Moving towards Anderson like a man possessed he slammed him against the wall and drew his fist back and slammed it in to his already crooked, greasy nose over and over again until the other boy was yelling at him to stop.

'What on earth is going on here?' An orderly wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him from Anderson, holding him as he heaved and struggled against the hold on him. 'You know patients aren't allowed in each other's room Anderson, move along to the nurses station NOW!' Anderson scurried out of the room, holding the top of his hand against his bloody nose as he glared vehemently at Sherlock. 'Are you going to settle down or am I going to need to call for a depot injection?'

Going limp Sherlock let his body deflate in the orderly's arms, sagging in defeat. 'Thank you, now what happened here?' He let Sherlock go and caught his chin as he turned around, investigating the glorious bruise that he could feel blossoming beneath the thin tissue of his cheekbone and around his hairline. 'Am I going to have to launch an official investigation in to this and write up a report?'

'Nothing happened, just a slight altercation over a few shared words that weren't taken too kindly.' Sherlock said, sinking back down to his bed and rubbing at his stomach with a sharp wince. 'There is no need for a report or investigation.' He stressed the words and gave the orderly a meaningful look, they were all very easy to manipulate on the weekends when Lestrade wasn't around.

'Good-o then! Do you need to see a nurse?' He motioned to the bruises but Sherlock shook his head and waited for him to walk out before slumping back on the bed and groaning in agony, his body was alight with bruises.

'Who did you piss off?' Irene sauntered up to Anderson and held out a wet flannel to him from her bathroom. He snatched the material off her with a glare. 'Oh no you didn't, I warned you!' She tutted, moving to sit beside him with a shake of her head. 'But no you had to prove a point, boys and their silly games.'

'I'm going to make him pay for this. He doesn't get to come in here with his mightier than thou attitude and mess up the system I have worked out in here!' Anderson growled through the flannel.

Leaning in closely Irene whispered in his ear; 'I know a way to get him back but I will need to make a phone call and send a text with a photo, but you'll need to get me the photo first.' He looked at her with a raised brow. 'There's someone I know looking for Sherlock, if we give him up he won't be a problem to you any longer.'

'What do you get out of this?' Anderson asked, lowering the flannel and looking interested.

'A little revenge of my own, but on someone else a whole lot less interesting.' Irene quipped. 'It pays to have connections sometimes; the female body can be a cunning thing especially when it's young and clean.' She cooed.

Anderson snickered. 'When will you need the photo?' He asked.

'By tomorrow if you can manage it.' He just nodded; she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek before moving off back to her bedroom. Just as the door clicked shut the nurse walked out of her office and called him in. 

'I leave you alone for a few hours and that slimy little bastard slithers right back in, I'll kill him!' John cursed, he had come back to find Sherlock sitting up on his bed with eyes closed and meditating, dark blue and purple bruises ringed with red blooming against his pale skin. He had been boiling mad when Sherlock had told him what had happened over an hour ago and his blood was still simmering in anger. Even now wrapped around Sherlock on the floor, running his hand through the unruly locks he was fuming. 'And the orderly honestly did nothing?'

'I told him not to John, if word of this got out to my brother he would have me transferred to another unit before the night was out and I would never have seen you again. I didn't want to risk that happening.' Sherlock said, pressing back against the strong planes of John's shorter body with a hum of content. 'Plus I am fine now, if not a little bruised. Nothing that can't be fixed.' He rolled around to face John and kissed him.

Trying not to be distracted John attempted to pull away but Sherlock just deepened the kiss, pushing John's lips open with his tongue and exploring his mouth and teeth. Giving in John wrapped his arms around slender hips and pulled the taller body tight against him and moaned in to the warm mouth when their hips ground together and Sherlock's long fingers made their way in to his hair and scratched at his scalp enticingly. Pulling away he gasped for a breath as those supple lips moved down his jaw and neck, moving along his collarbone before a breath of cool air hit his suddenly exposed stomach a hand pushing the fabric of his t-shirt towards his neck as the bob of curls moved down to explore the expanse of stomach and chest.

Groaning with an arch of his back John swore. 'Fuck Sherlock…' he almost levitated off the ground when teeth closed around the erect nub of his nipple and sucked. 'Bloody hell.' He panted, looking up at the ceiling as his skin burned in arousal and his pants became a little too tight in the crotch. Lowering his eyes he watched a head of curls move slowly down his body, kisses pressed in their path before resting on the buckle of his belt. Sherlock deftly undid the buckle and zipper and slipped John out, he bit down on his lip to contain a cry of pleasure as he was enveloped warm and whole with a warm mouth.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head John brought his hands down to Sherlock's curls and dug in, gripping as he sucked and hollowed his cheeks around John making him moan and buck his hips as he rode along the pleasure, whenever Sherlock did this he never lasted very long. He'd never had a blow job so good in his life.

Close John unconsciously pressed Sherlock's mouth deeper and the gag reflex of his swallow was enough to have him bucking up in to that perfect mouth and coming in long spurts. 'Uh, uh god Sherlock… Sherlock, oh gosh.' He mumbled, glassy eyes moving to look lazily down at his partner as he moved back up to kiss him. 'That never stops being amazing.' He whispered, boneless and spent on the blanket. Sherlock hummed against him, cheek on his chest.

This was the part that always made John nervous, he knew he needed to return the favour but he wasn't very good at it yet and was still unsure about what he was doing. Sliding Sherlock off his chest and lying him on his back he drew the fabric of his long sleeved shirt off and bit his cheek in shock. He hadn't seen the bruises on his stomach or hips yet, the obvious globes of fingertips stark blue against the pale flesh of Sherlock's hips and the deep discolouration on his stomach.

Leaning down he kissed them all lightly, tracing his fingers over them softly and nuzzling the soft fluff of hair that tufted out of the pyjama bottoms and briefs. Pulling them down he took a breath and repeated the kisses there, letting his lips linger a moment on the head before opening his mouth and doing his best to imitate what Sherlock had done for him. Using the groans as initiative to keep going he swallowed around the head and bobbed his head up down, gagging when Sherlock suddenly bucked in to his mouth with a low groan.

Pulling off he swallowed deeply and coughed a little. Sherlock wiggled his hips in protest to his mouths absence and he went back to his ministrations, adding a few licks and hollows to his cheeks until Sherlock shouted out his name and came in his mouth; shocking him.

'Sorry I'm sorry John I didn't mean to, it's just you did that thing with your tongue and I couldn't stop myself to warn you!' Sherlock panted, propped up on shaking elbows to look down at John. Licking his lips against the salty taste he shook his head and waved a hand in response, not quite sure what to say. He had certainly never had that happen to him before. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah no sorry I'm good, just caught me off guard a little is all.' John assured, crawling up Sherlock's body to rest against him for a moment before letting himself slip to the side and nestle in there, tangling their legs. 'You were amazing.' He whispered.

Taking a photo of the picture in her lap Irene added the address of the unit and the simple words; _come and get him_ before hitting send. Smiling she slipped her phone back under her pillow and laid down to go to sleep.


	17. Kings of Medicine

**Kings of Medicine**

_They're picking up pieces of me  
While they're picking up pieces of you  
In a bag you will be before the day is over  
Were you looking for somewhere to be?  
Were you looking for someone to do?  
Stupid me to believe that I could trust in stupid you _

Leaning against the cool tiles of the open shower stall in the bathroom Sherlock yawned around the torrent of warm water running down his face, spitting out a lazy mouthful as he sagged in exhaustion. Despite it being a Sunday on the ward, with no plans for the quiet day Sherlock had still woken up early. Last night he and John had reluctantly separated from each other on the floor and crawled in to their designated beds before falling in to deep post coital sleep. They'd gone to breakfast together early as John was heading out again with his dad that morning, and Sherlock had moaned and yawned the whole time about being awake at such an ungodly hour.

John had laughed easily at him, happy to remind him it was only nine o'clock in the morning and this was a normal time to be awake and eating breakfast. Sherlock had simply mumbled incoherently back at him around a mouthful of toast, picking at the cold morsel without interest. He really would have to speak to Mycroft about bringing some more appropriate food in to the ward; otherwise Sherlock was never going to go back to eating. Right now the only thing keeping him eating at all was the threat of the nasal gastric tube hanging over his head.

Sliding down the wall lethargically Sherlock hunched over and let the sharp needles of water massage yesterday's bruises on his back, he wondered what John was going to do today with his father. The other boy hadn't even been gone ten minutes yet and Sherlock was already pining over his absence like a love struck tween. Shaking his shaggy curls free of the water droplets he stood up slowly, wincing around the swollen area of bruises that littered his pale flesh and turned the water off, not wanting to wallow any longer. Even though technically it was against the rules to lock the bedroom (_honestly why did they have locks at all then)_ doors Sherlock had flipped the lock while he was in the shower to avoid any chance of Anderson trying to come back for more. He wasn't in the mood today, and wanted to avoid making John worry as much as possible. They hadn't even gotten to the chance to talk about his day out.

Wrapping the thin NHS towel around his narrow hips Sherlock stepped out in to the cooler air of the bedroom and shivered as gooseflesh broke out on his skin, prompting him not to waste anytime drying off and dressing quickly in loose slacks and a threadbare shirt. His mother would have a meltdown if she could see her youngest son reduced to this, and dressed so poorly. It was probably a good thing Mycroft was keeping their parents at bay, the last thing Sherlock needed right now was the dramatics of his mother and the ensuing battle to have him taken home with her and put right. Sherlock smirked around the thought of what mummy would do if he walked back through their front door again, or ratty clothes and skin and bones compared to the well dressed and maintained young man that had snuck out so many months ago.

Considering what had become of him to even put effort in to those thoughts in the first place, Sherlock sank down on to his bed as he pondered the idea of reading a book or going back to sleep for the remainder of the day, when someone knocked on the door and rattled the doorknob before knocking sharply again and calling his name. Jumping up Sherlock rushed over and unlocked the door, opening it wide enough to reveal the bulky form of an orderly he disliked, with a pug face and simple vocabulary. 'What?' He asked, raising his brows in annoyance at the disturbance.

'There's a visitor for ya in the guest's lounge.' He grunted before turning and shuffling away.

Wondering what his brother wanted from him, Sherlock slunk off towards the visitor's room, caught off guard by the blinds being drawn against the large windows that surrounded the room on the inside. Wrinkling his brow in confusion Sherlock paused with his hands on the doorknob and looked back at the nurse's station to see if they would protest to the room being so closed off from their sight but nobody was looking his way from the fishbowl. Shrugging with trepidation he turned the knob and walked in, the room was dark on his immediate entrance except for a small lamp on the far side of the room. After shutting the door it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the murkiness and make out the figure standing outside the golden glow cast off from the small glow.

Feeling his whole body freeze up Sherlock backed up against the door as his chest tightened and his heart rate sped up, constricting his breath and leaving him almost hyperventilating when the figure turned around to smile widely at him with arms held out warmly; 'Come give daddy a hug!' With a shudder Sherlock grabbed the doorknob with clammy hands that voice making him lose all sense of motor control as he fumbled with the handle before a hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed in an almost paternal way. 'Don't be doing that Sherly; haven't you missed me like I missed you? Big brother certainly did a good job making sure nobody knew you were here!' The hand moved down his body to rest on the small of his back as an arm curled around his front and pulled him back against the warmth heat of a body. 'Not even my boys could find a trace of you; did you ask the ice man to hide you from me Sherlock?'

The lilting Irish accent send shivers down Sherlock's thin frame as he squeezed his eyes shut against the intrusion of those hands across his flesh and holding him so tightly, his stomach turned in revolt against the close proximity. 'I was so worried when you got away from me, all alone out there in the world without me to take care of you anymore and you just vanished…' The warm breath tickled the cold skin beside his ear. 'I thought you had died, can you imagine my ecstasy when I learned you were alive and well?' The hand on Sherlock's hips squeezed the bone, fingers digging in to the flesh as a warm wet lips pressed down on his shoulder before the nip of sharp teeth.

Wincing and drawing in a sharp burst of strangled air, Sherlock tried to pull away but he had nowhere to go. 'You had me restrained on your bed and out of my mind on drugs so that you could do whatever you pleased, is that what they are calling "_taking care"_ of someone know?' He spat, grabbing the hand on his hip and pushing it away so he could try and get out of the grip. He got a few feet away before cold hands closed tightly around his wrist, squeezing the delicate bones in a threateningly. 'You held me against my will James, I had every right to get away from you just as I do now, so leave before I create a scene and have you escorted out by security.' Tugging on his wrist, Sherlock kept his face away from the man holding him to afraid to let the other see the fear on his face.

'Now, now Sherlock you know it doesn't work like that. The moment something comes in to my possession it is my property and I own it completely.' James tugged his arm sharply and Sherlock had no choice but to turn and stagger towards him or face having his shoulder wrenched from the socket by the insistent tugs. James stepped in to his space bringing them face to face and caressed his cheek like a lover would, touching their foreheads together so their breath mingled. 'You belong to me in every sense of the word Sherlock, there's no escaping me once you're in this web I will devour you over and over again until you realise.' Sherlock shivered, stepping away as James brought a hand to the back of his head and pressed their lips against each other in a crushing kiss and forcing his way in to Sherlock's mouth with his tongue.

Pushing against James chest with both hands Sherlock staggered back, gasping for breath as he swung his fist wildly and connected sharply with James cheek, making the man laugh with deranged glee. 'There's the Sherlock I remember, so much fight left still. Daddy will just have to work harder.' With that James stalked forwards and grabbed the wet locks of Sherlock's hair and wrenching on them as he buried his fist three times in to Sherlock's stomach; supporting his weight against his chest when he sagged against him with the blows.

Sinking down to his knees despite the grip on his hair Sherlock coughed and wheezed, tears running down his cheeks from the pain in his stomach. His mind had stopped working, he felt disconnected from the moment as Moriarty spoke to him, trying to coax an answer he couldn't possibly give him. His memory was being assaulted by the memories of the months he had spent cuffed to James luxurious four posted bed, the sexual and physical abuse he had suffered at his hands. Skin crawling against the phantom sensations Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, there was no way he was going through this again. Physically or mentally, the fight or flight centre of his brain was screaming against him to get away but he couldn't make any of his limbs move out of fear.

Why hadn't any of the nurses come to see why the blinds were drawn, or even just come to do a check and make sure Sherlock was still inside the room? His body protested again him, muscles screaming from his crouched position to the pressure on his scalp where the hair was threatening to come out in the powerful grip and his heart slammed erratically against his sternum. His body was drenched in cold sweat now and he couldn't regulate his breathing as James wrenched on his hair again, bringing his face up to stare in to cold dead eyes with a deranged gleam. 'Don't make me show you right here and now Sherlock; I will physically remind you that you belong to me.'

Fear sparked a surge of energy in Sherlock and he started to struggle against the grip on his hair but Moriarty threw him to the ground and leaned a knee on his back between his bruised shoulder blades, the same way Anderson had tried to subdue him in his bedroom yesterday morning. _Maybe this is all I am good for, satisfying others urges like a doll_ Sherlock thought to himself as he struggled to draw in a full breath, arching his back against the weighted protrusion on his lungs the hand in his hair pressing his face in to the stained rough carpet. 'I-I'll scream or make a scene somehow, y-y-you won't get your w-way this time James.' Sherlock stuttered out, wincing when his face was ground harder in to the carpet.

A warm breath tickled against cheek, a wet trail conversing from cheek to air as James licked him. 'Wrong answer love.' The pressure left his scalp in the same instant he was rolled over, straddled and a hand closed under his chin and forced his mouth to open. Sherlock strained and squirm against the hold on his abdomen and face but Moriarty shoved a balled up silk handkerchief, monogrammed with his initials in to his mouth so he couldn't make a noise around the taste of silk and expensive cologne. The fresh air stung his carpet burned cheek for a moment before he was man handled back to his stomach, hands pulling his arms behind his back and wrenching his shoulders in an uncomfortable position before they were bound with an expensive silk scarf as the weight of Moriarty settled on his lower back before leaning over him again.

Sherlock could feel his brain shutting down, he didn't want to be present for this but his mind palace had locked the doors on him and he was panicking as wet kisses pressed against the exposed flesh of his neck and shoulder before teeth sunk painfully in to his flesh. He shivered as blood ran down his chest and pooled in the fabric of his ratty shirt. The weight shifted, a hand settled on the waistline of his slacks. 'Who do you belong to Sherlock, who do you love most in this world?' Sherlock couldn't answer, a gust of cool breeze brushed over his bared behind and the back of his thighs and his whole body tensed up, he squeezed his eyes closed against the relentless tears.

Opening his eyes again he blinked several times and looked down, he was sitting on his bed in a pair of damp pyjamas with shower water dripping from his water loaded hair. His cheek was stinging in the cool air, his shoulders ached and there was a dull pain in his behind where he sat on the bed, a pillow beneath him. Looking around in confusion he settled on the clock above the bathroom door and furrowed his brow. He had lost four hours with no clue what had happened after James had pulled down his pants, pressing him against his stomach painfully.

Panicking Sherlock stood up quickly and grabbed the wall to steady himself when the room dipped and turned around him as his blood pressure adjusted. How long had he been sitting on the bed for? On the point of hyperventilating now he headed for the bathroom, he must have had another shower; maybe he could find some answers in there? The room was humid and sticky with enclosed heat from the shower running; the water was still trickling weakly from the head. He walked over and turned it off, noting that even though the cold tap hadn't been on the water was well and truly chilled. Turning in a circle Sherlock tried to put anything together but all he found was the scattered clothes he had been wearing that morning, with a wince he bent over and picked them up for closer inspection.

First thing that caught his attention was the blood over the right shoulder and the teeth shaped tears in the thin fabric, he mutely raised a hand to his shoulder and winced at the pain and feeling of sticky warmth. Turning to the mirror he pulled away the coagulated blood that had stuck the material to the wound and stared at the bite, still weeping and raw against his pale flesh. It looked like it would require stitches. Stomach turning Sherlock stumbled over to the toilet and threw up, heaving over the bowl until his stomach was well and truly empty to the point of bloody streaks of saliva and off coloured bile and yellow acid. Sinking to his knees and resting his head on his arms, he looked down at the clothes still in his hand. There was another bloody item but he couldn't bring himself to look, to acknowledge it.

Someone outside knocked on his door, so he pushed himself to shaky feet and dropped the clothes back on the floor in a daze and stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his pyjama top. Opening the bedroom door he just stared at the orderly, the man who had supplied him the heroin so early on his admission and he sworn he would never go back to. 'Sorry I had to use my break to go home and get it, worth it though.' The man winked and handed over a small black bag which Sherlock took numbly and then the man was gone and Sherlock was left wracking his brain for a memory that just wasn't there.

Moving back to his bed he sat down carefully, now more aware of the pain between his legs when he moved the wrong way. Holding the black bag in his hands he gave in and unzipped what turned out to be a small drug kit. There were three sterile needles and syringes and a vial of medical grade Morphine and a premixed solution of Heroin. Looking back at the clock, Sherlock had one more hour before John came back from leave.

The reason for the drugs was obvious to Sherlock even if he had no memory of obtaining them (thank god) he thought. Standing up slowly again he moved to his desk, swallowing tightly he picked up a pen and pulled the notepad he usually scribbled on toward himself. Pausing with the pen poised over the paper, Sherlock didn't know what to write. Either way this was going to be shitty, for John Watson especially. It would of course, affect his brother and parents when they learned what happened, and the staff here that found him; Lestrade would certainly take it as a person blow of failure to help Sherlock. But John Watson would feel it the most, there was even a chance he would be the one to find Sherlock. He considered that it might be a bad idea, but the thought of James coming back and losing more time as a result were not something he could bear the thought of dealing with.

Surely not having to explain to everyone the origins of the marks on his wrists where they had been bound, the bite on his shoulder or why he was limping and there was blood on his underwear. There was no other way around this for him. The only way to escape it was a permanent solution.

Quickly penning a few words he tore the page free and folded it in half, jotting John's name clearly and placed it on the boy's pillow so he would find it easily enough. Settling back on the bed he prepped two syringes, one for the morphine and one for the heroin before tying the supplied tubing around his arm and pumping his arm for a good vein. Taking a deep breath Sherlock brought the first syringe up to his vein with a shaking hand before burying the needle in the plump vessel and depressing the plunger.

Warm heat soared through his system and he shuddered, laughing almost at how good it felt as his body grew heavy almost instantly with the heroin. Placing the depressed syringe aside he picked up the morphine with numb fingers and injected it quickly. He didn't have time to remove the needle protruding from his vein before his limbs went lax and sank back against the pillows with a deep sigh.

That night under the bridge he hadn't been able to enjoy the calm enjoyment of the drugs he had intentionally overdosed on. He had been desperate and in a hurry to end it all and used the first thing he could get his hands on after escaping Moriarty. This time he was calm and at peace with his decision, ready and willing to go in to deaths eager hands. He had cheated the horseman many times now, but this time there would be no narrow escape. He was sure as his eyes fluttered shut and he felt his heart slow down dramatically to a sluggish beat, his chest surrendering to the atrophy of the muscles.

'Look I know I am backs an hour early and dad has to sign me but he's coming okay? I just want to go back in, I said goodbye to him already!' John argued with the nurse at the front desk, he'd had a shocking fight in public with his dad over whether or not John would be attending college next year and he had demanded to be taken back to the unit, not wanting to deal with the stewing anger he was feeling for the other man. 'You know I am a patient on the ward Doris, please can you just let me back in before I do something stupid like deck my father when he gets up here?' Doris relented then, rolling her eyes against the threat but allowing John through the locked doors regardless.

She stopped him in the hallway and had him turn out his pockets and take off his woollen jumper to make sure there was nothing hidden in the woollen folds, his shoes next before he was allowed to head back to his bedroom. Huffing in annoyance John pushed the door to his and Sherlock's room open and stormed in, completely ready to throw himself down on Sherlock's bed dramatically and complain about his father when he actually saw Sherlock.

Heart in his throat John felt his whole body close up and lock on him in shock, his mouth fell open in question before he stumbled forward and hit the red button above Sherlock's bed before pressing two shaking fingers to the carotid pulse point. A whaling alarm filled the room as he pressed firmer against the cold, clammy skin for the sign of a pulse that wasn't there no matter how hard he pressed. He looked down at Sherlock's face, taking in the new graze on his cheek, lax lips there were turning a deep dusky blue making him look away in denial as he noticed the needle. It was still in the skin, resting against the bony arm.

John seemed to come alive then and started compressions, desperately pounding against the left side of Sherlock's sternum when the door slammed open behind him and nurses filled the room. John ignored them as he bent down and breathed air into Sherlock's cold mouth three times, pausing to feel for a pulse before continuing again. Hands closed around his arms and pulled him away, John struggled wildly, kicking and thrashing to get back to Sherlock but an orderly had him in a backwards bear hug lifting his feet from the ground and carrying him from the room.

The last thing John saw of Sherlock was that haunting blue around his lips, John felt like it had smeared on to his own from mouth to mouth, as though it were simply lipstick. 'Let me back in there! Let me go you monster! Sherlock!' John howled, refusing to listen to the orderly holding him even as he was hauled in to another room followed by a nurse that tried to vocally calm him down in his struggles. 'No let me go! I have to help him! Please let me go back! He needs me!' John just kept struggling until he was pressed into a bed and felt a prick in the meaty muscle of his arm.

Slowly everything seemed to slow down to the consistency of honey, the orderly let him go against the mattress when his muscles started to melt from his body and his limb went numb and boneless. John knew he needed to be fighting this, trying to get back to Sherlock but the drug was too strong, it was eating his brain function away like corrosive acid. Sagging in to the mattress John lost his fight with reality and sank in to sleep drenched with images of blue lips and sluggish hearts that refused to beat.

When John woke up it was Monday afternoon and he had no idea where he was or what he was doing in a different bed, fully dressed with a pounding hangover and a mouth drier then the Sahara Dessert. Head aching he pushed himself away from the drool patch on the pillow and stood up staggering around the room until he found the door out, stopping when the orderly who had been sitting outside it stood up threateningly, and facing off with John mutely.

Obviously he had caused trouble last night. He vaguely remembered causing a fuss to get back on the ward after a fight with his dad, but he hadn't been very angry over that… he had gone back to his bedroom. _Sherlock_. His heart sped up uncomfortably and he dashed past the clutching hands of the orderly and made a beeline for his bedroom door, shut against prying eyes. Throwing it open he walked in to find it a mess. There was stray medical waste all over the floor, the bed had been completely strayed but there were unexplained blots of dried blood on the right side and spotted on the floor. Blood meant a pumping heart, so that must be a good thing.

Backing up John's shoulders connected with someone's chest. Turning around he found the sympathetic and haggard face of Greg Lestrade and his heart started to flop around in his chest as he dreaded the worst outcome from that look. Greg looked so torn and defeated as he stared back at John. Opening his mouth to ask what had happened; John couldn't get the words passed his strangled throat. 'He survived John.' Greg took his arm and led him across the halls of the ward and in to the warmth and familiarity of his office and placed John down carefully on the sofa before sagging down beside him.

'His lips were blue, he didn't have a pulse and they pulled me away.' John mumbled, tears running down his cheeks. 'Will he be okay?' He almost didn't want to ask, Sherlock could have been lifeless on that be for an hour before they managed to start his heart again somehow, against the odds but would be different, a changed man from brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation.

Greg sighed mightily beside him. 'We have no definitive answer of okay to go on, he hasn't stabilised yet. The next twenty-four hours will tell us his fate.' John felt his shoulders sag and his head flopped forward in to his hands.

'I know we aren't meant to form lifelong bonds in places like this, friendships outside of friendly communication aren't allowed in the rule book. Honestly I think Sherlock tried really hard in the beginning to fight it, just talking or being civil to each other…' John drifted off as he remembered how rude and arrogant Sherlock had been those first days rooming together. 'But then it sort of just happened, we started talking and he was just so amazing and smart and before I knew it I had these feelings I couldn't understand; because first- he was a bloke and second we were in a nut house and surely it was just the drugs and near death experience right?' Greg laughed quietly but didn't intervene. 'but it wasn't like that and slowly those feelings got stronger and we started acting on them all of a sudden, and simple things like sharing space meant huddling together between the beds holding each other, or sharing secret kisses and make out sessions between checks. I realised a few days ago I might actually love that insulting, narcissistic asshole I share a room with.'

Choking on a sob John sniffled and roughly wiped at his eyes. 'And now I realise sitting here with my therapist crying over a bloke in a psych ward why they tell you not to make friends with other patients. Because fuck, this hurts. My mum and sister already left me behind, and now this bloke I only just realised, yes I do love, might leave me too and maybe I am cursed so that the people I love the most are destined to leave me painfully.' Greg's hand rested between his shoulder blades and rubbed up and down soothingly and John completely broke. Dam walls snapped like twigs and the tears ran from his eyes in gushes and he gave up wiping the snot from his dripping nose as he choked on spit and phlegm with each sob that seemed to break his chest open like razors.

This was for his mum and his sister, for Sherlock and the loss of his own life now that he was dealing with the consequences of everything. But mostly for Sherlock and their lost chance at love, the possibility of what could be or could have been in their future. John had wondered about Sherlock's progress, or his lack thereof and the way he himself was moving up through the ranks of his treatment. He had known he would still be there for Sherlock no matter how long it would take to build himself back up. But now he might not even get that option.

'We are investigating what happened, how Sherlock got a hold of that much paraphernalia in the first place and what led up to it. I don't want to have to ask this, but do you know anything about it?' Greg asked softly, still rubbing John's back as his cries slowed down to a dribbled of tears and snot.

Wiping his mouth John nodded. 'I think it's someone on the staff, and also Anderson. He traffics stuff in and out, through the same orderly I think.' John supplied, not caring about the consequences.

'Did you know about Sherlock having a visitor yesterday?' Greg asked, not commenting on John knowing about the drugs. John shook his head, looking confused.

'The only person that comes in to see Sherlock is his brother, and trust me I would have known if he was coming in. Sherlock whines like it's the end of the world when Mycroft comes in.' Greg chuckled at that, being familiar with the dapper older Holmes brother.

'I'll speak to Mycroft, explain your significance to Sherlock and take you up there myself for a visit, but I need to ask something, and you can't get offended because I need to know John.' Looking up at the serious tone, John nodded in confusion and held his breath. He wanted to see Sherlock and didn't want to blow this. 'The doctors found some bruising, a bite mark and some bleeding from Sherlock's rectum. They did a rape kit and found semen, did something happen between you and Sherlock before you went on leave with your father?'

All the air seemed to slam out of John's body and leave him gasping and panting desperately for more room to breathe, his cheeks burned a deep red in anger and his heart pounded against his chest in supressed rage. Unable to speak John shook his head violently. 'You didn't get a little too rough maybe?' Greg asked a resigned note to his voice like he didn't want to be asking these questions of John.

'No- n-no there's no way. I am not that kind of person, we haven't gone that far before.' John swallowed around the nausea building in his throat. 'Ask Anderson, he's attacked Sherlock twice. They used to have a deal going… Sherlock would allow Anderson to have sex with him or a blow job in return for favours. Phillip Anderson is apparently well connected with the staff and has a way of getting around things and getting stuff done.'

With a tired sigh Greg ran his hands over his face before pulling them through his hair with a small tug on the short silver strands. He looked tired and aged beyond his years, sitting on the dingy sofa in his office with John like this. Defeated and on the verge of a breakdown himself in the face of all this. John didn't blame the man for wanting to run away from it all, especially when it had all been happening under his nose. From the drugs to the patients and the enabling staff members allowing this to happen. Maybe Lestrade would shut the ward down after this, or resign and hand it over to someone else to deal with.

John didn't want to see that happen.

'A nurse will help you pack your things and move you to another room, we want to keep you under supervision for the moment while this is going on so you'll have to stay out of your bedroom and remain in view of the nurses station.' Greg stood up and headed towards the door. 'I will come and get you when I am able to take you up and see Sherlock.' John just nodded, standing up and leaving the room in a daze.


	18. Summers Gone

**Summers Gone**

_Sing for your lover  
Like blood from a stone  
Sing for your lover  
Who's waiting at home  
If you sing when your high  
And your dry as a bone  
Then you must realise  
That you're never alone  
And you'll sing with the dead instead _

With an out of character sigh and unusual admittance of defeat Mycroft sharply closed the lid of his laptop. He had locked himself away in the privacy of the empty family lounge in the early hours of the morning and repeatedly reviewed the tampered tapes of the young adult psychiatric ward, watching both the entrance to the ward, the visitor's rooms and the nurse's station all to no avail. Whoever it was that had come in secrecy to visit his younger brother on the ward, he had known what he was doing in terms of covering his tracks. There was a team reviewing the footage from the rest of the hospital, looking for anybody out of character heading for the ward, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack and Mycroft was exhausted and desperately grasping at straws by now.

At this point the only person who could them what had happened was the reason Mycroft was in the family lounge of the ICU in the first place, comatose and facing the possibility of never waking up again. His baby brother hadn't shown any signs of responding to outside stimuli once throughout the night, expect for a gran-mal seizure around three thirty this morning.

Leaning back in the well weathered arm chair Mycroft ran his hands over his face and back through his rumpled hair before glancing down at his watch and sighing again, the doctors would be by for their ward round in ten minutes and he could use that time to clean himself up a little. The ward was quiet at seven in the morning as Mycroft stole from the room and headed for the small male bathroom stalls and evaluated himself under the florescent lights glaring down at him in the mirror.

It had been a long time since had looked this haggard. Not even when Sherlock had first put him through this, overdosing under a bridge before waking up in the hospital and tearing through his wrists with his own teeth in a desperate bid to die Mycroft had held himself together. It shouldn't have been any different this time, but he was shaken by the fact that there was possibly something his brother had managed to get by him, a secret he didn't know about which had led them here. Whether Sherlock liked to admit it or not, he needed his big brothers interference sometimes. Perhaps if he had been forthright with the staff and spoken of what had occurred the day he had tried to take his life, or what had led up to it Mycroft could have intervened and kept his little brother safe.

Splashing his face with cold water Mycroft groomed his hair with his fingers in place of a comb, straightened out his shirt collar and sleeves and smoothed down the front lapels of his blazer before stepping back out and walking crisply back to his brother's side, nodding briefly in hello to the morning shift nurses that were milled around the front desk in handover. He was not amused to realise he recognised some of the faces by now, from Sherlock's frequent visits to the ward.

Monitors beeped and hummed peacefully, the ventilator setting the rhythm as Mycroft settled back down in the chair beside Sherlock. In a rare show of familial love Mycroft reached out a precarious hand, almost scared and wishing his brother would snap back and make fun of him; and took hold of the pale, cold spidery one lax on the bed. The skin was chilled and dry in his own warmer grip and he found himself squeezing it lightly to both warm and portray that he was there. The machines went about their mechanisms in the background, reading out regular blood pressure and temperature readings and the constant, almost irregular reading of Sherlock's pulse that jumped erratically.

When the doctors made their noisy arrival, almost an hour later Mycroft withdrew his hand and stood up crisply, ever the diplomat, and nodded his greeting and shook hands. The doctor in charge picked up his brothers chart, ran some basic motor neuron and reflex tests on his brother and stood silently for a moment while he wrote some things on the chart before looking up at Mycroft and smiling a little. 'Has there been any improvement?' He asked.

'We don't know how long your brother went without oxygen Mr Holmes, Sherlock's lungs had completely collapsed and he suffered multiple large scale seizures when we were able to resuscitate him. There's been some muscle death around his heart, some swelling in his brain and low response to outward stimuli. At this point we would just be speculating about the outcome, we have to consider the possibility that he may not come back from this and may remain in a vegetative state reliant on life support leading to eventual brain death or he may come back from it on his own in time.' The doctor looked sympathetic as he delivered the news and Mycroft swallowed back the dread that the words brain death had brought forth. He knew Sherlock wasn't immortal and there was only so far he could push his body before it threw in the towel, but he was only sixteen and he couldn't fathom the idea that this could be it. _What would he tell mummy._

After a moment Mycroft collected himself. 'If he does pull through, will there be any lasting damage?'

After a short glance back at Sherlock's chart the doctor nodded and looked up. 'Like I said, there has been some muscle death around his heart. He will need supportive care to manage that and look out for signs of heart failure, there are many preventive steps that can be put in place for that these days. Unfortunately unless he wakes up we won't know the extent of the possible brain damage, at the moment I am scheduling for an EEG to be done to monitor Sherlock's brain activity and work out if the seizures are epileptic related or something else.' He placed the folder back in the slot at the end of the bed and moved closer to Mycroft and placed an almost fatherly hand on his shoulder with a small squeeze.

'We will do our best to pull your brother through this, but all we can do at the moment is offer medical support and keep him alive. I don't want to lie to you and spread false hope Mr Holmes; I will warn you that there is a real possibility that Sherlock may not pull through this. It's good that he has lasted the night, we were very concerned he wasn't going to make it but he did and that's a good sign.'

Looking down at his brother, filled with tubing and wires that were keeping him alive; he didn't know what to do. 'What time frame are we facing here?' He asked. 'Is there a defining tell to look for which path he will go down between brain death and pulling through?' Did he want to know the answer to that?

The doctor shook his head, looking apologetic. 'Obviously we can monitor the EEG and use that as a time frame along with reflex and stimuli response but it's all down to Sherlock and how hard he fights through this. His body will make the decision in its own time to fight or flight.' Mycroft nodded, grim. 'Right now he is fighting, it may not seem like it with all these wires and machines intervening for him but he is still in there. Try not to give up hope okay?' The doctor offered a hand to shake and took his leave.

Overwhelmed and for the first time since he was a child, Mycroft wasn't sure what to do. He had built his relationship with Sherlock on the pretence that caring was a weakness and through that they had built a rocky relationship of interference and indifference towards each other. It was obvious that Mycroft could no longer keep his parents out of the loop on this; he had informed them earlier that Sherlock was receiving forced treatment for his lifestyle and was on the mend without any of the uglier details. But he couldn't deny his parents the chance to say goodbye to their wayward son. Mummy would never forgive him if she ever found out there had been a bodily chance of seeing Sherlock in the flesh one last time after a long and cold absence for two years.

A soft knock on the doorframe startled Mycroft from his thoughts, surprising him to find himself still standing beside Sherlock and looking down at him, a smattering of moisture beneath his eyes that he quickly blinked and wiped away before turning around to see who was at the door, he hoped it was Anthea; his new assistant with coffee and clean clothes. But instead it was the tired face of Gregory Lestrade looking at him with a sad smile and holding two cheap looking tall cups of what he assumed was coffee. 'I didn't know if you would have had the chance to get away yet.' He walked in and handed a hot cup to Mycroft who appreciated the seeping warmth that stole through his shock chilled skin.

'Thank you.' He smiled curtly and sank back in to his chair, a little to overwhelmed to stand up much longer. Who would have thought an annoying sixteen year old would bring the rising rank of the British Government to his knees. Greg grabbed a chair from against the wall and dragged it beside his own before plonking down in it unceremoniously and swearing when some black coffee splashed on his hand.

'I saw the doc coming out when I got here, any news yet?' Taking a mouthful of the hot bitter coffee that reminded him of watery sludge Mycroft grimaced but appreciated the strength of the caffeine before answering. It buzzed through his stomach and veins, renewing him a little.

It didn't stop him from letting another sigh slip past his lips. 'It's all down to my idiot brother from here, but I have been informed to prepare myself for the very real possibility he may never wake again or may suffer brain death.'

There was no response from the older man as they both sat there in silence grimacing around mouthfuls of coffee. 'After Sherlock left the safety of his childhood home in turn of the streets and opiates, I looked for him relentlessly, especially when I realised he had broken in to my home and taken a large amount of money from me.' Mycroft paused; Greg was looking at him, waiting patiently for him to go on. 'It may have been my response to his thievery which resulted in his refusal to accept any help on my behalf after that and caused him to go in to sex work in order to afford his habit. But before he went off the radar all together I cautioned him, he had needed emergency medical care at my home after a close call with some bad drugs and I had warned him that though he was young, he wasn't immortal and he needed to start taking less risks and caring for himself before one day it was too late.'

Greg snorted. 'I bet he took that well, kid looks like he's been living in a third world country all skin and bone like that.' Mycroft smirked but simply nodded. 'Yes, he turned around and said his body was merely transport and he could make it do whatever he pleased.' This time Greg laughed out loud, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Once when we were both younger, he tried to convince me to stop eating so much because it was making me slow; so I understood where that came from and worked where I could with getting some nutrition in to him, but when he went to the streets I lost that ability and every time I saw him he was growing wraith thin.'

'Before this, he was making an effort I think, if that means anything.' Greg offered, waving a hand towards the comatose youth spread out beside them. 'It took him two weeks but he gained a whole kilo.'

'After that incident with the bad drugs, he was at his lowest weight at that point which was nowhere near what he is now, I caught him in my bedroom taking more money. I am afraid I didn't handle it very well; I called him things I wished I could have taken back immediately and we got in to an altercation which is a rarity amongst us both. He broke my nose and I left him with a black eye and split lip before I threw him out of my house swearing him off. I told him I wanted nothing more of his lifestyle, and he wasn't to come around anymore.' Greg's eyebrows were raised now, mouth a little open in shock as his brows scrunched together as he thought about it.

'Where were your parents in all of this?' Lestrade asked.

Shifting his legs Mycroft looked away. 'I had convinced them not to contact the police when Sherlock disappeared from their home in turn of the streets. They were at that stage only mildly aware of his developing drug habits, they didn't know how deeply enamoured he had become in it all and I kept it that way. I promised them I would keep him under surveillance and make sure he stayed safe. I broke that promise the night I threw Sherlock out of my house after saving his life not twelve hours earlier on my sofa.' Mycroft recrossed his legs again, uncomfortable now. 'I have a feeling if I had kept up my watch on Sherlock that perhaps none of this would have ever happened, I believe all of this may be linked to the six months I shut him out of my life completely before I got word of his admittance to accident and emergency for the overdose.'

'I don't want to get all therapists on you right now Mycroft, but you can't take all of the blame for this on yourself because it doesn't work that way. Sherlock plays the major role in all of this as it is his life and he makes his own decisions. You did what you had to do in a tough situation through no fault of your own.' Mycroft simply pursed his lips and nodded, he knew that but yet here they were with no answers. 'Have you alerted your parents this time?'

He shook his head. 'No, they are aware I got Sherlock in to a rehabilitation program of sorts but I have denied them access to him, for the benefit of Sherlock more than themselves. Though I do believe my parents would have struggled to see him in that condition. They will struggle none the less when I call them this afternoon.'

'Would you like me to make the phone call?' Mycroft shook his head.

'It will be best coming from me I believe.' They sat in silence for a while longer before Greg spoke up again, standing now.

'Still okay for me to bring John Watson up this morning?' He threw his empty coffee cup in the bin and stretched his arms tiredly above his head and arching his back, revealing a small slip of belly. Mycroft blushed a little and looked away.

'That's fine.' Standing up as well Mycroft moved in to the bustling hall with Greg. 'I will come down this afternoon to talk with a few select patients about their role in all of this. I want access to Phillip Anderson, Irene Adler and the male orderly who supplied Sherlock with the drugs. I have held my team back from making their move on the orderly so far, but unfortunately there will be a thorough investigation in to the case.' Greg looked sour but nodded; he was just as angry with himself for the flaw in his work mates. 'Bring John up at ten o'clock if that sits well with you.'

John was lying on his bed numbly, staring vacantly at the ceiling when someone stopped outside his open door and stood staring at him. 'Look at the little puppy, all lost and lonely without his owner there to stroke him off.' He turned his eyes to the door, it was Anderson and Irene. He couldn't find the energy to wonder why they were suddenly so close together but he wasn't in the mood to listen to them put Sherlock and himself down. 'Fuck off.' He grumbled, looking away in hope they would lose interest and move along to traumatise someone else.

'Ohhh puppy has some bite.' Irene slinked in to the room and came over to John's bed and crawled up it, resting her knees on either side of his hips and getting close to his face and lips, her breath warm on his cheeks. 'Maybe I could make you feel a little better; after all… he never was yours to begin with.' Irene leaned down and licked his cheek almost purring against his body. John snarled and pushed her off the bed; she squeaked indelicately and hit the floor in a heap.

Leaping up John stood on the other end of the bed when Anderson rushed in and helped Irene back to her feet to glare at him venomously. 'Sherlock doesn't belong to anyone; he's a human being for fucks sake. GET OUT!' He shouted at them, pointing at the door. But Irene giggled and shook her head.

Irene stepped around the bed and stopped in John's space again, smiling wickedly this time. 'Sherlock belongs to _him_ and only _him_; he always gets what he wants in the end so you better move on now Johnny boy.' Irene traced a finger across his lips and stepped back. He didn't understand what she meant by _him_, was it to do with Sherlock being a rent boy? She noticed his look of confusion and pursed her lips in amusement. 'Didn't he tell you?' Without thinking John shook his head.

Irene leant in close again, lips almost touching John's ear as she breathed the words in a whisper to him. 'Jim owns everything, even me, but especially _Sherlock_. Jim doesn't like sharing his toys so if I was you I would run far, far away if he finds out about you and he will- he always does. Just like he found out where Sherlock was hiding.'

Repulsed by the close contact and the touch of wet lips on his cheek John shoved Irene, not meaning to be so violent when she hit the floor again with a small thump. This time Anderson charged forward and barrelled in to John's stomach in a rugby tackle that knocked them both to the floor where they wrestled and twisted around, trading blows that glanced off each other.

'Oi everyone stop right now!' John was suddenly yanked from Anderson's chest under the armpits by strong hands and held against a solid chest as he kicked and struggled to go back to pummelling Anderson who was still dazed on his back. 'Stop!' Lestrade shouted again and John gave up struggling, realising there was no point now. 'You two get out, you know patients aren't allowed in each other's rooms, especially you Irene!' Ducking her head Irene helped Anderson to his feet and they scurried out. 'Bloody hell John, what were you thinking?' Lestrade questioned as John sank down on to his bed again in resignation now.

'They provoked me; they were saying stuff about Sherlock.' John knew he sounded like a petulant child trying to lay the blame somewhere else but he didn't care.

Lestrade just sighed. 'Well clean yourself up because I am taking you over to the main hospital to see him now, I got permission of his older brother and he is expecting us in five minutes.'

In a second John was off the bed and moving in to the bathroom to wipe his face and apply deodorant and a clean shirt and woolly jumper before coming out and heading impatiently for the door, only looking behind him once to make sure Greg was following him. They left the ward in silence and moved through the numerous wards and elevators until they were outside the double doors to the ICU. John was a little shocked now, unsure of how to proceed or what to expect now that he was here.

When he had last seen Sherlock yesterday morning he was cold and blue leaning against the pillows, almost matching the pale tiles he was being supported by with no pulse and lax. He looked at Greg questioningly, swallowing his nerves.

'Don't be alarmed when you get in there, they have him on life support right now. I don't know how much I am allowed to tell you but I am sure Mycroft will let you ask some questions.' John nodded and they buzzed in.

The Intensive Care Unit was quiet but busy; there were the mingling sounds of numerous machines and voices as they walked. Small sounds of crying was coming from a curtained off cubicle, another one he caught a glimpse of an older male rolling around in apparent pain as a nurse worked around him. He pulled his gaze away and focused on the room ahead of them, in front of the nurses stations where he could see the end of a bed with feet tenting the starch white blanket. Greg's hand came down heavy on his shoulder as they stopped outside and John took a deep breath and nodded before going in.

Greg had been right to alert him to the sight of Sherlock, the image was startling. His eyes were closed and still, skin pale and wan his long arms and musical fingers lax on the bed amongst the clutter of wires and lines that were coming out of him. The most unsettling was the mechanical rise and fall of his chest, John found himself staring transfixed at the movement struggling to take it in. Sherlock wasn't, or couldn't breathe on his own right now. There were many different wires attached to his forehead and face, all through his hair hooked up to a monitor that looked similar to an ECG read out.

'Ah Gregory, John Watson.' Mycroft stood up from his seat beside the bed, John hadn't noticed him at first, oblivious to anyone but Sherlock's slight frame on the hospital bed. It was a struggle to tear his eyes away and offer a hand to the older Holmes brother and say hello. He didn't know whether he should say thank you for having the chance to visit his secret boyfriend. Or even if he should tell Mycroft that he and his younger brother were now an item, if Sherlock would want him knowing that.

In a surprising act of chivalry the elder Holmes gave John his chair, answered a few simple but alarming and heartbreaking questions about Sherlock and then took his leave with Greg leaving him alone with Sherlock. He quickly closed his hand around Sherlock's, judging by the warmth that still lingered there that Mycroft must have been holding on to it before they had walked in and interrupted him.

'Bloody hell Sherlock.' He whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks and gathering speed as they fell forward and dripped on the sheet as he leaned on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disrupt the trail of any stray wires or leads. 'You don't get to check out as soon I realise I love you, you don't get to leave me behind like this like everyone else has already.' He squeezed Sherlock's hand. 'If you don't wake up I will you kill you myself okay?' His tears were making a wet spot on the bed now but he couldn't stop them from rolling down his cheeks as his chin shook and he bit down on his lip to stop the sobs.

'Please don't leave me alone!' He put his head down on Sherlock's arm and let himself sob pathetically until Greg came back an hour later and escorted him back to the ward.


	19. Julien

**Julien**

_You can run but you can't hide  
Because no one here gets out alive  
Find a friend in whom you can confide  
Julien, you're a slow motion suicide_

It had been a long time since Greg had spent this much time in his office working overtime and wracking his brain relentlessly for information and questioning what route he should take. He held his mobile phone limply in his hand, the touch screen open on the direct number to Mycroft Holmes and he didn't know if he could bring himself to have this conversation over the phone, but the thought of doing it in person was even more daunting. There was every chance the man already knew what he had to share, had possibly even been asked the questions Lestrade was to relay to him but he just couldn't bring himself to get up and do it.

Groaning in frustration Greg locked his phone and pulled himself up from the aged sofa he was perched on and pocketed the device, deciding it would be in poor taste to do it so impersonally. Grabbing his jacket from the coat hook he shrugged in to it and left his office, keeping quiet as he moved through the darkened ward, pausing outside John Watson's room for a moment, making sure the young man was deeply asleep before he moved on.

It didn't take long for him to reach the double doors of the ICU and was buzzed through to bring him standing apprehensively in the doorway of Sherlock's room. Mycroft was slumped in the chair by the bed, his face exhausted in the dull light over the bed as he looked up to greet Greg with surprise, his question of his arrival obvious in the raise of his eyebrows.

Shuffling in the room Greg internally berated himself for being lame about this and asked Mycroft to step outside with him. They settled in chairs opposite each other in the family lounge, cradling bad instant coffee in paper cups and avoiding each other's gaze. 'I don't know if the attending doctor from the emergency room has been in contact with you, or if they intended on using me as an intermediary…' Greg drifted off, pausing in hope Mycroft already knew and would be able to save him from delivering this news but the other man stayed silent and waiting for him to go on. 'I don't know why it wasn't already in Sherlock's file, or brought up sooner….'

'Please get on with it Greg.' Mycroft insisted, inpatient.

'In the initial assessment when Sherlock was taken in to emergency one of the nurses found a bite mark, and signs consistent with restraint. It was decided to do a more thorough investigation, but the report has just come through now showing signs that signified a rape had taken place- they found signs of anal tearing and seminal fluid. I was contacted to know whether I was going to launch an investigation and include the police.' Mycroft was staring at him blankly, blinking absently with his lips pursed and coffee cup looking in danger of slipping from his slackened fingers. Greg reached forward and took it from him, placing it on the coffee table beside them.

'Why was this not brought to attention immediately?' Mycroft asked, coming back to himself and looked away from Greg his complexion blanching as he took in the news. 'This is important information.'

'I can call up and ask them, but I am going to guess it got lost in the other work up at the time. Sherlock was in a precarious situation, everything else may have overshadowed it as they worked to keep him alive.' It wasn't an answer Greg was happy giving, but he had done a placement in accident and emergency and knew how easy it was to lose track of something, even if it pertained to a rape case.

Mycroft sighed and looked down at his hands, Greg was caught off guard to see them shaking. The man seemed to unshakable in his demeanour and was almost frightening in his level of control and seeing such a sign of weakness threw him off and made guilt bubble up in his stomach, and regret that he had to be the one to tell him that his brother had been raped. 'I want full access to the report and all the results of the kit they took and specimens. This will not be going to the police or placed on file, tell them this will be handled privately and to be removed from the system. If anyone has an issue tell them to contact my office and I will have it dealt with.' It almost came out robotically and Greg could only nod.

'In a way this does bring sense to some of the actions Sherlock has taken, and bring to light the shape he walked out of that room in.' Mycroft picked his cup up again and took a long mouthful and grimaced. Greg conceded to the taste and the outcome of the news. He had sat and watched the video footage many times himself the past three days and questioned what had gone on in that room, but he had never come to this conclusion. He never would have allowed himself to consider this.

'My assistant brought by the appropriate paperwork to allow me access to patient records and the patients themselves and I will be coming by the ward personally to speak with several of them tomorrow morning.' Greg nodded, knowing this had been coming. They needed to get to the bottom of this, he had been alarmed to hear about the actions of Phillip Anderson and the system he and the now removed orderly. It had thrown him completely knowing this was happening under his nose.

They sat in silence for a little longer before Greg puckered up the courage to mention the other thing that had been troubling his mind. 'We transferred John Watson to another room for observation and when one of the nurses was packing his belongings she found a note to John, it's obviously from Sherlock and I don't know why I held on to it myself but I wasn't sure whether I should hand it over or not.'

'Are you looking for my permission to release it?' Mycroft asked raising his eyes to Greg's in confusion for a moment. 'Do you have it on you?' He asked then, almost hopeful.

Greg shook his head. 'It's in my office; I don't know what I am asking. I don't know whether to put John through the pain of a goodbye letter before the fact, or deny him the chance of a final goodbye from Sherlock or whether it is even my place to withhold it in the first place because it was never meant for me or you.'.

'Let John have the letter Gregory, it couldn't cause him more pain then he may already be in. I may be indifferent to emotions but I am not blind to the obvious affection he holds for my brother. It is simply a deep pity John put his faith and heart in to someone that has never loved anything before.' With that Mycroft nodded and left the room, leaving Greg with his lukewarm excuse for caffeine and a deep sadness that penetrated right through to his heart and left him dreading the next morning and the events that were surely to come.

When John woke up he rolled over in the bed, noting how foreign the mattress felt even though all the beds were the same on the ward and stared at the empty bed across from him. It wasn't the same room he had shared for several months with Sherlock, but he still felt the ghost and emptiness of it all. The loneliness was suffocating in its oppression against him and he wanted nothing more than to burrow down in the blankets and go back to sleep until it was time for Greg to take him to see Sherlock again.

Today they had arranged to go at twelve-thirty, later in the day then yesterday. There was still five and half hours for him to kill between now and then, and John had no idea what to do with himself. Thoughts of leaving the room were completely absent, he had no motivation to attend groups or surround himself with people that didn't understand what was happening, deal with the drama that Anderson and Irene would surely cause. Not even the call of coffee and food were enough to rouse him from the blankets he cocooned in. What use would it be, sitting lonely at their outdoor table and staring down at bland toast and bitter coffee without his favourite person there to complain about the condition of the food and chain smoke?

Pulling the sheet over his head John pressed his face hard in to the pillow and wrapped his arms around his body with a squeeze as tears squeezed from his clenched eyes. He didn't even know it was possible to cry this much, he had thought after his mother and sister had died he would have run himself dry, drained his lifetimes well of salty drops well and truly out. But he still found them coming at night, randomly throughout the day and often in the morning when he remembered the other bed was empty.

A soft knock on the door brought him out of his misery and he peeked his head out of the blankets to see who it was, he sat up with a soft smile for Lestrade and let the blanket puddle in his lap where he crossed his legs beneath them. Greg came in and sat on the end of his bed, he was holding a torn piece of paper in his hand and John noticed his name scrawled on top. For a moment his heart skipped a beat and he felt his cheeks warm up in anticipation.

'I debated whether or not I should give you this.' Greg said quietly, looking down at the paper. 'I didn't know if it would be worth putting you through the pain of whatever is in here- I didn't read it- but it isn't up to me.' He held it out and John took it up quickly, holding it against his stomach like a child being handed their favourite teddy after a night without it. 'I'll let you have some time to decide what you want to do, and I will come back to make sure you are okay.' Greg patted him on the knee and stood up with a small groan and a yawn. John realised he looked haggard and drawn. As exhausted as John felt.

'Thank you.' John said, nodding in agreement.

After Lestrade had left the room, he looked down at the piece of paper and sniffled. He had wondered, if Sherlock had meant to leave him something like this, a type of goodbye but he hadn't want to ask if they had found anything. Now that it was in hands he was filled with trepidation and anxiety. Part of him wanted to open it and absorb every word greedy and hungrily like a fish out of water, but he was scared of what else it could say. Taking a deep breath he steadied himself and opened the folded paper.

_John you are and will be the last thing on my mind and it pains me deeply to be leaving you this way and I apologise sincerely and feel a deep regret in my soul that I won't get to kiss you again, hold you or see your smile one last time or say I love you face to face but there it is. You are the first person I have made that connection with and I thank you for allowing me that feeling of care and devotion for the few moments we got to enjoy it together, there is no greater happiness in my life then when I was in your arms. I do not expect you to forgive me for my trespass to the other side but there were many things I was unable to escape and never would have been able to outside of death.  
Please do not give up on your recovery John, move on from this place and live for both of us  
love Sherlock_

There were the tears again, blurring up the words and dropping on the ink to smudge it in places as his heart shattered and folded in on itself. He read and reread the words over and over as he silently cried until he moved the paper away from his blurred and painful vision and doubled over himself with a howl as he buried his face in the bedding. Emotional pain was bleeding out from him in torrents as slammed a fist against the mattress over and over before he clutched at the blanket with a fist and pulled it towards his face and hid, sobbing loud and open now with snot running down his chin, spit and saliva mingling with salty tears.

The bedroom door opened and the bed dipped, a hand resting on his back and rubbing soothingly. The paper slipped from his fingers and he panicked, shooting up with wide alarmed eyes as he reached out for it again pleading with Lestrade to give it back. 'You were scrunching it up.' Was all the response he got as Greg folded it neatly and placed it on the bed beside him.

'How can he possibly have expected me to be okay and to move on without him after all the time we spent with each other, practically living in each other's pockets since I arrived? How could I keep going without him there with me?' John asked, dissolving in to tears once more.

'Unfortunately something I deal with a lot in this profession is that same question from parents after they have lost a child.' Greg said softly, keeping his voice low as he rubbed circles in John's back. 'Whilst a letter can give some reprieve, a lasting piece of someone passed on it can also cause immeasurable pain for those left behind as they pick apart and deconstruct every little word and sentence looking for some sort of reasoning or tiny bit of understanding where there usually isn't anything left to be found.' John snuffled, a hiccup rocking his body. 'I've seen marriages separate over goodbye letters laying blame or dividing opinions, siblings or friends following in the deceased paths out of guilt or to be with the lost one again. They often do more harm than good, especially ones that are made to be deliberately harmful and place blame.'

Sitting up John wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked at Greg through watery eyes. 'I didn't write a note when it happened; I assumed it would be obvious after everything that had happened. But Sherlock never spoke about why, he shared some stuff about his life but he never told me why he tried to kill himself.' He cast his eyes back to the letter. 'I think a part of me was hoping for an explanation or something, a clue or a hint or something but all I have to go on is vague hints from Irene and his choice of lifestyle…'

Greg's hand lashed out and closed over his wrist and he was staring at him sharply. 'What do you mean by a name John?'

'I-Irene said something about Sherlock belonging to someone named Jim she thought it was funny that Sherlock hadn't told me about him, is that important?' Greg nodded and released John's wrist and stood up with a smile.

'I will be back to get you at twelve-thirty, try and keep some faith and solace in the possibility you can yell at Sherlock later for leaving you that letter okay?' John laughed with a snort and nodded, flopping back down on the bed after Greg was gone clutching the letter again.

After the rushed phone call with Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft had moved quickly through the hospital halls and made his way towards the young adult psychiatric ward to conduct his interviews with the two young adults in question. There were too many questions being raised here and not enough answers being supplied by what little they had been given. The orderly whom supplied Sherlock with the opiates for his overdose had been disbanded and removed from employment after a useless interview with Mycroft that same evening, where he had been thoroughly intimidated in to supplying all the information he could. But it hadn't been helpful or pertinent to the investigation Mycroft had launched.

All of this was being conducted under the radar; he didn't want to draw any attention to his personal life so only his most trusted personnel had been made privy to what was going on. Mycroft had taken the incident personally- more so after the realisation that his lapse in observation of Sherlock's wellbeing for six months may have caused the chain of events to occur.

Breezing in to the room he allowed the door to slam shut behind him, he barely paid the young woman sitting straight backed and rigid in a chair across from Greg any mind as he leaned his umbrella against the table and removed his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair before sitting down neatly beside doctor Lestrade and smiling coldly at her. They sat in silence for a few minutes; Mycroft was waiting her out, sizing her up and deciding what angle he should take with this. The information he had been supplied by Anthea about Miss Irene Adler told him she was a promiscuous young woman who wasn't below sleeping her way up life's ladder to get what she wanted.

Irene Adler was currently an inpatient on the ward as a term of a court order to rehabilitate for sleeping with and blackmailing her college English teacher, she was also well known on the streets and had come up on the police radar many times for underage sexual acts that had been swiftly swept under the rug and never progressed further. It was obvious to Mycroft she was a tool, and he was here to find out exactly who for and what relation this possibly could have to his baby brother. He was sure the two were connected.

'I have zero intentions of alienating you Miss Adler, it is clear you are a troubled young woman who is not above sleeping her way through life's little mysteries to make it to the top of the ladder. I am simply here to cut to the chase and get as much information out of you as is possible. It is apparent there is more going on behind closed doors then even myself is aware of, and it all pertains to a man named _Jim._ So if you would be so kind to enlighten me to whom this man is it would be much appreciated and I will refrain myself from involving the police in the matter.' Irene just stared back at him, she had kept her composure except for a widening of her pupils when he had mentioned Jim's name and the small crinkling between her brow and slight opening of her pursed lips.

Mycroft shifted in the seat crossing his legs. 'If you would prefer I involve the police I can have you brought up on aiding and abetting and failure to report the intentions of a rape of an underage person and the involvement and instigation of harassment and abuse leading to attempted suicide, which could change to second degree murder if my brother doesn't pull through this.' Irene swallowed tightly, showing the first obvious signs of uneasiness since Mycroft had entered the room. 'There will be no intervention of outside sources this time; I have read your file and am aware that whoever this Jim person is has his fingers in a few honey pots and that you work for him. This time though you will not avoid the appropriate punishment and will be placed in a woman's correctional facility.'

Beside him Greg shifted around in his seat, a little uncomfortable perhaps with Mycroft's handling of the situation but he still contributed. 'Look Irene, you're obviously a smart girl and you don't want to let this go that far, Mr Holmes is offering you an out here. Whoever this man is obviously cannot be important enough to risk going away for; these are very serious charges- especially if Sherlock doesn't pull through.'

'I didn't know what would happen.' Irene mumbled in to her lap.

'I beg your pardon? Do speak like a civilised person if you would.' Mycroft intoned, not impressed.

Shifting in her chair and looking squarely at Mycroft, Irene opened up with a defiant look on her face if not a little guilty. 'His name is James Moriarty and he practically owns the British world of crime, I got involved with him by accident when he picked me up off the street one night. He removed me from the streets and helped me find my feet and get enrolled in college, all I had to do was sleep with a few shady guys and get it on camera for blackmail. It made good money and kept me out of trouble mostly. A few months ago when I was dropping off some files for James I saw Sherlock there, several times.' Irene looked away, looking at Greg as if she was unsure she could go on, Mycroft coughed and nodded at her to continue.

'It was obvious he was always off his face, I never saw him outside of James bedroom but I never thought about it. James liked pretty things and Sherlock was obviously gorgeous so I just left it, assumed they were a couple. I kept to my own business and saw him on and off until I ended up in here.' Irene fidgeted with her hands as the two older men listened. 'I recognised Sherlock straight away but I stayed away from him, he seemed rude and impolite anyway so I didn't waste my time. James refused to intervene in getting me out of the ward so I didn't bother contacting him about Sherlock's presence immediately.'

'Why did you contact him?' Greg asked, leaning forward with intrigue. Mycroft kept his posture straight and disinterested despite his concern that the name James Moriarty was foreign to him despite his obvious influence on the crime underbelly of Britain.

'A girlfriend came in to visit me, she worked the same angle that I did for James but she was older and when she saw Sherlock she told me that James was looking for him and there was a reward for locating him. I didn't think twice, it helped that Sherlock was an obnoxious git and had pissed off another patient who was keeping me amused in here so I told James where Sherlock was. I didn't think about the outcome, as I said I assumed they were a couple.'

Greg sighed and left his face drop in to his hands, groaning as he scrubbed in to his sandy silver hair. 'How did you even get in touch with this person? Mobile phones aren't allowed on the ward and we monitor all phone calls…' Mycroft felt sympathy for the man, he was obviously feeling the hit of so much going on around him that he didn't know about.

Irene quirked a manicured brow at him, smirking. 'Drugs are a piece of cake to get in, why would a mobile phone be any harder?'

'Back to the point at hand here.' Mycroft interrupted, Greg could have his breakdown about this later. 'What did you get out of selling out my brother?'

'Released.' Irene said simply, shrugging her shoulders. 'At the beginning of it all, James refused to help me because I went outside of his jurisdiction to try and blackmail someone. He doesn't like it when people don't do what they are told so he wouldn't intervene in my case order to attend the program. I sold out Sherlock for my own gain, obviously now I sort of now what happened I am not proud of that.'

Mycroft snorted ad shook his head. 'Thank you that will be all. You will be removed from the ward and placed in another facility by the end of the day.' Standing up he smiled sarcastically to show his teeth and left the room, beginning to speak with Anthea before the door had even shut behind him.

By the end of the day he would have his hands on James Moriarty, no matter what it took.


	20. Passive Agressive

**Passive Aggressive **

_Every time I rise I see you falling  
Can you find me space inside your bleeding heart  
Every time I rise I see you falling  
Can you find me space  
Find me space_

It had been a week. Dutifully at twelve-thirty everyday Lestrade brought John to the ICU and he would be allowed to sit beside Sherlock's bed and hold his hand or talk quietly to him. He would calmly hold the cold, relaxed hand when it tensed up and Sherlock suffered a seizure while internally his gut clenched and his heart tried to beat out of his chest, then, when the nurses were gone and they were alone again he would lay his head on the hand and cry quietly.

Sherlock's condition had improved, he had been diagnosed with Epilepsy and he had stabilised and been removed from the ventilator but was still reliant on nasal oxygen and hadn't woken up. They had taken the life support away three days ago and it had been a game of hell like waiting for Sherlock to open those blue grey orbs and scowl at them for crowding around. But so far he had remained unconscious, not moving an inch unless his body locked up and seized as a result of the damage to his oxygen deprived brain.

Today Sherlock had already had three short episodes; the doctors were trialling medications to keep them under control but were so far falling short of the desired effect. Though John was becoming steadily accustomed to them, he just wanted them to go away so Sherlock would have a chance to wake up. He was still holding on to the words of Lestrade, telling him to hold on to hope that he could yell at Sherlock for leaving him with such a heart breaking letter. But it didn't seem to be coming. John was starting to doubt that he would get the chance at all, and that this was going to be Sherlock for the rest of his life. A vegetable reliant on medical staff and numerous tubes and wires to stay alive.

Sighing, John clutched tighter at the long fingers and sat back in the chair with his legs folded beneath him. His kidneys had been causing him a bit of pain the last few days, he hadn't bothered bringing it up with anyone yet but he was struggling a little today sitting in the uncomfortable chair.

The atmosphere on the ward had changed since everything that had happened, Irene and Anderson had both been removed and there had been a large scale lock down and room searches in a bid to uncover anything that had been smuggled in previously. Lestrade had seemed more confident after having all contraband removed and placing stricter rules and regulations on visitors and the coming and going of patients and staff on the ward.

A few days ago John's father had come in and spent three hours with him, at the moment John's leave had been rescinded and he was restricted to between the two wards so he was more than happy to have some new company that was responsive to him. They had spent the time talking softly and playing cards. John had opened up about his new found sexuality and been completely thrown by his dads reaction, expecting to be shut down and turned away by him. But his dad had smiled and embraced him happily, saying Harriet would be proud of him for coming clean about it.

It had been harder sharing information about Sherlock, and the situation they were currently in but his dad had thankfully been understanding and said he would support John through as much of it as he could no matter what happened; whether Sherlock woke up or not he promised to be there for him. That had meant more than John had been able to express at the time, to hear those words from his father. The loss of his daughter and wife had clearly changed the man for the better it seemed.

At his own request to be kept in the loop, John was bristling over the fact that Sherlock's older brother still hadn't located the man who had caused Sherlock to attempt to take his own life three times. Apparently the word had gotten out quickly that Mycroft was after James and he had gone underground, completely off the radar. John had hoped he would be caught by now, before Sherlock would wake up so that he could recover in a world where he no longer felt threatened.

Was becoming obvious though that Sherlock wasn't in any immediate rush to wake up though, and John was struggling not to lose his patience. He just wanted to kiss the stupid idiot and tell him how selfish he was for saying he loved John in a suicide note, and tell him that he loved him back even if he was a giant git.

Fifteen minutes with John resting his head on Sherlock's hand, tears rolling occasionally down his cheeks he felt the twitch of fingers in his hand; he braced for a minute- expecting another seizure to roll over Sherlock but it didn't come. John felt another light movement in his grip and he lifted his head quickly, watching like a hawk. Sherlock's eyes were moving beneath pale lids, eyelashes fluttering against high cheekbones. He was too scared to look away, in case this wasn't real, a trick of the low lighting in the room, or maybe John had fallen asleep without noticing and this was all a cruel dream. But there was more movement and a definite squeeze against his sweating palm. John squeezed back.

Holding his breath with his heart skipping in trepidation John almost passed out when the squeeze was returned and he blinked in shock, not registering that one minute he was seeing pale blue veins against the pale lids of Sherlock's eyelids and then suddenly the cerulean orbs of glossy eyes that were hazy and confused. His heart almost leapt out of his chest as he muttered Sherlock's name and shot out of his chair, swaying with the sudden movement and leaning over the prone form that seemed to be slowly coming to life beneath his eager gaze. Sherlock blinked a few times before tilting his head a little towards John and locking in on him.

'John?' His voice was soft, hoarse and dry from not being used but John could have sworn he had never heard anything more beautiful in his seventeen- almost eighteen years of life and his heart leapt from his chest as he broke out in a smile and sobbed, nodding his head before he bent down and buried it in Sherlock's chest.

A few moments later the machines surrounding Sherlock's bed took their cue and started to chime up, filling the room with noise from the acceleration of Sherlock's pulse rate and movement. It was only a few minutes before nurses were filling the room, taking John by the arm and leading him from the room and swarming around Sherlock who just stared in confusion. The last he saw of Sherlock before one of the nurses pulled the curtain was those beautiful blue eyes crinkled in confusion.

There was comforting warmth nuzzled against his arm, slightly damp and sniffling with little movements that caused ripples of pressure against his lax palm. Curiosity filled Sherlock, his whole body was heavy and aching with the strain of taxed muscles and his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton overflowing from his brain that was muddy and pulsing. Squeezing the solid hand that held his own, he struggled against the weight on his eyelids and tried to open his eyes. The grip was returned and the weight lifted from his arm as silence filled the room, replaced by steady beeping and hissing. Sterile cold air was rushing through his nose, he shifted against the sheets, and because it was apparent he was on a bed now even though he didn't know why.

If he could just open his eyes he was sure this would all make sense somehow, he would know who was standing above him holding their breath, why there was the beeping of machines that were steadily increasing in their crescendo of sounds.

It was a small victory, Sherlock finally blinked through the grittiness in his eyes and understood where he was from the bland white ceiling he was looking up at. Turning his head to the side his heart skipped a painful beat in his chest and before he could stop himself he was whispering John's name as his brain seemed to light up in response to seeing him there beside him. 'John?'

John broke down in tears, loud sobs filling the room and confusing Sherlock even further. He wanted to reach out for him, aware now that it had been John's hand in his and he needed it back until he could figure out what was going on. But the blaring of the machines was getting louder, and his head was aching and refused to obey his commands to move his hand even an inch off the bed before people were filling the room overwhelming him with the sudden onslaught of noise and sensory data that overloaded his delicate equilibrium.

Within minutes John was gone, hidden behind the blue curtain as he was locked behind the screen with the mills of staff that were talking hurriedly around him. A flinch ran through his body when someone removed the nasal prongs and replaced them with a mask that pressed in to his cheekbones. They were all talking so quickly, he couldn't make sense of it all as a nurse bent over him and shone a bright light in his eyes, making him wince and pull back against the pillows in pain and panic. He could hear the monitors in the background picking up their pace as he panicked, his heart beat a rapid beeping. 'Sherlock you need to calm down, can you understand me?' He nodded, sucking in deep breaths from the mask.

'You are in the intensive care unit, you are okay though alright?' Sherlock just nodded again, unable to find his words amongst the muddling of his thoughts. 'Someone page the doctor.' The same nurse ordered, she looked back down at Sherlock and placed a hand on his arm where John had been crying. Why had John been crying?

Raising an uncoordinated hand that fell weakly against his face, Sherlock tried to push the mask away so that he could talk. 'Wh's goi-n on?' His words were slurred and thick, his throat felt dry and abused against the thickness of his jaw muscles and sandpaper tongue. His hand was lifted back to his side again, the mask rearranged more neatly over his mouth and nose.

'It's okay Sherlock.' Was all he got in return for his enormous efforts. The small space around his bed was emptying out and he was left with the one matronly looking nurse smiling down at him and squeezing his arm supportively. Sherlock spent the next few minutes working on just breathing and looking around looking for clues but his brain refused to compute and put anything together for him and he was left with an aching head and a dazed confusion he wasn't accustomed to.

An older man came through the curtain almost dramatically, causing Sherlock to jump a little in fright which just instilled more panic in his overworked brain for how out of character his body was reacting and he was acting in turn to waking up. He was wracking his brain for something, anything but all he was being supplied with were images of kissing John goodbye that morning. What had happened?

'Ah Sherlock! So good to have you with us!' The doctor smiled broadly as he walked over to the bed and picked up Sherlock's hand to feel the pulse at his wrist and count it with the numbers on the monitor. 'I'm Doctor Burrows; I have been looking after you since you came to us on the ward.' He was given another bright smile. 'Now can you tell me the last thing you remember, as well as the date and day?'

Furrowing his brow in confusion Sherlock nodded. 'I don't know the date but it was Sunday, I remember saying goodbye to my roommate John before he went on day leave with his father.' He was proud he had managed not to slur his words this time but it still felt a little foreign to be talking and his throat was singing its disapproval over the taxing task. 'Is it- Is it still Sunday, or maybe Monday?' Sherlock asked, coughing in to the oxygen mask and glancing at the doctor's concerned look as he pursed his lips to Sherlock's response. 'How long?' He rasped.

Something was wrong about this whole situation and he hated that he couldn't tell what it was.

'You've been in the ICU for a week Sherlock; you overdosed on a heavy amount of opiates in your room Sunday morning. You came off life support and started breathing on your own three days ago, you are very lucky to be alive and to have woken up at all. You faced a very real threat of brain death.' The words hung in the air over Sherlock as they seemed to drop in to him and he absorbed them, the reality of it all.

Everything made sense then, why his body was weak and unresponsive- the dry coarseness leaving a tickle in the back of his throat from the tube that had breathed for him. How had he lost a whole week so easily without realising? Better yet, Sherlock thought, why and how had he overdosed again? There had been the incident with Anderson the night before but that hadn't affected him that much and John had made everything okay again anyway. As frustrating as it was, he was still missing something blaringly obvious here.

'You have no recollection of the events that took place after saying goodbye to your roommate at all?' Burrow's asked again and Sherlock just shook his head, already exhausted by it all.

'I wish I did.' Sherlock muttered, looking off to the side and surprised to see his heart rate had dropped dramatically since he had woken up and settled down from the initial panic. The doctor shifted beside the bed, and he looked around again with eyebrows lazily cocked in question.

'You didn't get away cleanly this time I am afraid Sherlock, you were lucky in the past.' Sherlock nodded, waiting for the inevitable bad news surely to follow this. 'You suffered a myocardial infraction- a heart attack which led to cardiac arrest and the death of some of the muscle around your heart. This is permanent Sherlock, in number years you can expect to find yourself on the transplant list; you are going to require a pacemaker in the meantime and a lifelong commitment to getting clean from the drugs.'

'My hearts failing?' That was all Sherlock took in, _his heart was failing_.

'Eventually, yes it will.' Burrows confirmed, sitting down on the side of Sherlock's bed. There was more. 'We are still working on a solid diagnosis, unsure yet whether it's a side effect of the brady-arrhythmia or a results of the swelling that occurred in your brain but you have been suffering from several seizures a day.' Burrow's rested a hand on Sherlock's bony knee and squeezed reassuringly. 'We can treat this with medication though, we are working through a few at the moment and hopefully your body will start responding to one soon.' He just nodded.

'Any questions?' Sherlock started to shake his head but stopped, nodding quickly. 'Has my brother been around?'

'Do you mean Mycroft?' He nodded. 'He's been making sure we take the best care possible of you, I can have one of the nurses contact him now if you'd like?' Normally Mycroft was the last person Sherlock wanted meddling in his life but right now he also knew his older brother probably knew every tiny detail pertaining to what had happened Sunday and now. There was also an unsettling feeling in Sherlock's chest he knew what may have led to this, he didn't want to give any attention to that thought right now though. 'John?' He asked instead, hopeful they would let the older teenager back in the room.

'Shortly, right now I just need to run a few simple run of the mill tests okay?' Sherlock just nodded and looked to the side, lost in his thoughts as he obeyed the doctors as best as he could with his failing weak body.

As soon as the room had cleared of medical staff John rushed back in to Sherlock's side, his eyes were closed again when John came to his bedside and his heart skipped in trepidation that Sherlock had slipped back in to his coma again. But slowly the blue eyes fluttered back open and a small smile ghosted over pale chapped lips; 'kiss me.' Sherlock whispered and John leant down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a deep, chaste kiss that only lasted for a few seconds.

Pulling the chair back to the side of Sherlock's bed, John sat down again and took Sherlock's hand with a light grip, smiling when it was squeezed back. Taking a deep breath, John looked at Sherlock's pale face and asked the burning question on his mind; 'why love?' A single tear slipped down his cheek and he didn't bother to wipe it away. Sherlock just shook his head.

'I don't remember, the doctor said short term memory loss is normal in a situation like this. All I remember is kissing you goodbye on Sunday.' John bowed his head, sighing. He had tried to confront Mycroft about it, one of the times he had come in to find him sitting by Sherlock's bed still but the older Holmes had refused to share anything. Saying it was still under investigation at this point. 'Do you know anything?'

'I tried asking your brother, but he wouldn't share anything with me the tosser.' Sherlock laughed quietly. 'You left me a note…' John whispered.

Lethargically Sherlock rolled his head toward John and lifted a lazy eyebrow, waiting for John to explain. 'First of all you sod- you don't get to say you love me in a bloody suicide note.' Sherlock's cheeks burned red, the flush rising up his neck and creeping across the exposed area of his chest. 'Second you have some explaining to do.'

'Indeed you do brother mine.' John started and turned around quickly, letting go of Sherlock's hand and blushing with embarrassment. He didn't know how much Mycroft knew about his and his younger brother's relationship and was nervous to have been snuck up on being so intimate with Sherlock. Mycroft was standing in the doorway with a briefcase and his umbrella, looking prim and proper and worldly out of place in his three piece suit amongst the drab environment of the NHS hospital.

'I can't explain what I don't remember.' Sherlock drawled.

'Then allow me to fill in the blanks.' Mycroft walked in to the room and pulled a chair up beside John's and crossed his legs in a business-like manner. John looked between the two brothers who were facing off coldly against one another in a silent staring contest. John was reminded of the saying- _if looks could kill_. 'Would you prefer, perhaps if I asked John to leave?' Sherlock shook his head, and John felt himself relax back in to his seat in relief unaware he had been holding himself so tensely.

They settled in a moment of silence as one waited for the other to speak first, eventually Mycroft was the first to speak and break the tension. 'James Moriarty.' Sherlock went rigid on the bed, his whole body tensing up and his pale expression going pallid. John looked around in confusion, not understanding who that was or what it had to do with anything happening right now. 'I believe you best start at the beginning dear brother.'

'Don't _dear brother _me Mycroft, belittling me will get you nowhere.' Sherlock snapped eyes cold. But Mycroft didn't relent, John reached out and took Sherlock's hand again hoping to offer some comfort. Mycroft didn't reply, just sat back in his seat and tapped his fingers on the arm in patience.

'Head of the criminal underworld, fingers in a lot of honey pots that give him a lot of connections and the ability to do things under the radar without detection or issue.' Sherlock said almost robotically with no emotion in his words. It sent chills down John's spine hearing him talking like that.

'How did you meet him?' Mycroft asked voice intense.

'He picked me up on the streets, offered to pay me extra and supply me with drugs if I allowed him to take me back to his place for the whole night and let him do whatever he wanted.' Sherlock's eyes were averted from John, his expression almost ashamed as he spoke about his past.

Without preamble Mycroft asked his next question; 'when?' John felt like he was watching a tennis match, swivelling his head between the two brothers as they talked like he wasn't even there. When he went back to Sherlock the younger brother looked as though he wished he could sink through the mattress as the heart monitor picked up pace.

Sherlock's hand clenched inside his. 'After you decided you no longer wanted me as your brother and cast me away, I was desperate for the extra cash so I went with him without even thinking, it had been a long time since my last hit.' John squeezed back, letting Sherlock know he was there for him no matter what he said.

They sat in silence for a moment, Mycroft beside him with his eyes closed as he seemed to digest what Sherlock had said. The steady sound of the monitors and hiss of Sherlock's oxygen filled the room for the next ten minutes, the only other noise the shifting of their bodies. Not even John was sure what to think, or even say. What did this all have to do with James Moriarty and who was he? Sherlock had never mentioned him before now.

After a few more minutes Mycroft again, broke the silence they were all swallowed by. 'This man has everything to do with where we find ourselves at this present moment does it not?' Sherlock simply nodded his head against the crisp linen of the pillow. 'Enlighten us so that perhaps we can understand, and for once in your life Sherlock let someone help you.' Mycroft sounded tired in the end, and John had a feeling the tension between the brother's has been long standing and precarious.

For the first time John spoke; 'I can leave if that would make this easier for you Sherlock, I would prefer you told me at your own pace.' Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head shortly, eyes closed and clenched. 'Let me know if you do want me to leave at any point, or if you simply need a break okay?' John leant over and pressed a brazen kiss on Sherlock's cheek fighting against the blush that burned under Mycroft's stare.

Sitting back and trying not to shift under the gaze of the older Holmes John coughed and took Sherlock's hand again, not sure which one of them was more embarrassed right now.

'I don't know what you expect me to say Mycroft, it doesn't solve anything or help me in this moment.' Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. 'I was foolish and I made a mistake, I allowed him to ply me with drugs and before I even began to become sober it was too late and he had me where he wanted me, whenever he wanted me, no matter what I said or tried to do he literally had me tied down beneath- above- behind him whatever he wanted.'

John felt himself go rigid in his seat; aware he was squeezing Sherlock's hand too tightly but couldn't bring himself to unravel the grip he had. Unable to accept or believe what had just been said. Before he knew it his mouth was opening; 'You were raped?' Sherlock's breath hitched, his eyes clenched closed and lips thin and pursed. 'Sherlock…' he whispered, frozen and suddenly unsure of what to do. Mycroft was motionless and statuesque beside him, eyes held frontward and unblinking in the dull light of the hospital room, casting shadows across his features and making him look older than his years. Across the pillow there was the slightest rustle of hair as Sherlock nodded.

'James kept me tied to his bed and made sure to keep me high so that I couldn't struggle back, unless he wanted the fight. The only time he allowed me up was when he would bathe me.' Nobody in the room was moving. 'The moment he turned his back and left me alone I got out, obtained a suitable amount of narcotics and tried to end my life. I knew what type of man James was, and he wasn't one to let his things get away and I didn't fancy the idea of hiding for the rest of my life or going back to that bedroom so I did the next thing I saw fit.'

'Oh Sherlock.' Mycroft sighed. Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, no colour left in his already pale face now. John understood why Sherlock had done what he did, but he still didn't understand who James Moriarty was and what he had to do with Sherlock's recent suicide attempt.

Shifting in his seat John leaned forward and furrowed his brow. 'Sorry but what does this sod have to do with any of this right now?' He asked, confused.

'After speaking with one Irene Adler it was determined that James Moriarty paid you a visit on Sunday morning after she alerted him to your whereabouts. After reviewing the video footage from the ward and your hospital file with I have since removed from record it was determined that you were-.' Mycroft shifted in his seat and coughed shortly clearly uncomfortable. 'You were raped again Sherlock, I debated whether or not I should tell you this but in the end… you then accessed opiates from a regular orderly to whom was supplying the patients and that is how you ended up here.'

John was reeling, he couldn't imagine how Sherlock was feeling about all of this when his own mind was struggling to understand and take it all in. Would he be able to get over all of this, or would he have done the same thing and taken the first exit as soon as possible? John figured even if he didn't counter in the drugs and living on the streets in a drug den, he didn't know if would be possible to move along from being held captive for who knows how long and used as a sex slave. After a moment he realised he was crying, tears running freely down his warm cheeks as he held Sherlock's hand in a death grip and his whole body just heaved with a giant sob that shook him to the core.

Jumping from the chair John practically threw himself on Sherlock's thin chest and sobbed for the boy that was beneath him because he didn't seem to be able to cry himself.


	21. English Summer Rain

**English Summer Rain**

_Hold your breath and count to ten,  
And fall apart and start again,  
Hold your breath and count to ten,  
Start again, start again... _

Mycroft had left the room in a prompt fashion after John had thrown himself tearfully over Sherlock, leaving the two of them on their own until Lestrade had come back to escort John back to the ward. They hadn't shared much though, Sherlock was still exhausted and out of sorts with everything that had been exposed about his life, and John was still struggling to supress his sniffles as he occasionally lifted his head from Sherlock's chest to lay soggy kisses against his dry lips. Despite the shock of John's tears and breakdown over what he had been through Sherlock had found it relieving. It was a part of his life he had tried several times now to permanently remove himself from, he had thought that if he were handling it this badly there was going to be little to no chance of anyone else dealing with it any better.

It all came back to his lifestyle in the end, once a call boy always a call boy and Moriarty had always taunted him that he was the best that Sherlock would ever have, simply because he was used up damaged goods. But John had wept for him, shuddering violent cries that had left the front of Sherlock's thin hospital gown damp and soggy with John's bodily fluids.

But in the end John had made it clear he would be sticking around, simply through the simple peck on the cheek and the promise that he would be back tomorrow morning and that they would be talking more then. Sherlock had smiled and nodded, wondering if it was the arrhythmia or the excitement in the promise of seeing John again tomorrow that made his heart skip a few beats.

The doctors words hadn't had a chance to sink in on him just yet, and Sherlock swallowed against the small claws of panic that were curling inside his chest and settling themselves there. How many times had someone from the den brought him back from an accidental overdose? Had his brother pulled him back from the brink before he had been cast aside like a rag? It was only natural that this time he came away with a permanent reminder, he wondered if John knew, if Mycroft or Lestrade had told him that eventually his heart would start to fail. He would need to speak more in depth with the doctor when he had a chance, work out the time frame and see what he had to work with.

Casting an eye up towards the heart monitor, watching the irregular beats move up and down through the squiggly lines, Sherlock jumped when his brother coughed from the doorway and moved back in to the room looking thoroughly put out by what he had seen between John and his little brother. Sherlock smirked at him as he settled back down in his seat and crossed one leg over the other and tapping his fingers on the worn arm rest.

'I have a team currently closing the net around Moriarty, it shouldn't be long before he is taken in to my custody where he will be appropriately dealt with.' Mycroft was looking across the room, away from Sherlock. 'He will no longer be a problem for you.'

They sat in silence for a few moments. Sherlock didn't know what to say, he knew he should say thank you but he and Mycroft had never shared a relationship like that and there was still bad blood between them even though Sherlock knew he had brought all of this down on himself. It was Mycroft who surprisingly broke the silence. 'Why didn't you come to me Sherlock? Surely you couldn't hate me enough to end your life over coming to me for protection and sanctuary from a predator.' There was an inflection of hurt in his voice that stung at Sherlock, even as he struggled to push it away.

'I was out of my mind when I escaped, I didn't know what I was doing short of finding the next score and getting as far away as I could.' Sherlock whispered, unable to raise his voice any higher, unable to think of anything else to say. 'You had made it clear I was no longer welcome at your townhouse, and the next best thing to far away was death; I was well aware of what that man was capable of.'

'Oh Sherlock.' Mycroft sighed and lowered his head in to his hands for a long moment, they sat in silence again. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was feeling the pressure of blame over his words, and while Sherlock didn't want to give his brother the satisfaction of owning up to his own mistakes he didn't want to see his brother blaming himself so harshly either. He had done what any normal sibling in his situation would have done with their drug addicted thieving brother. He didn't hold it against Mycroft that he had cut him off and out.

'Though you may think yourself in control of everything I do Mycroft I am my own person capable of making my own decisions, you should know by now with my track record I am infamous for making the wrong ones and I followed through with that again this time and now I need to lay in the bed I have made for myself, you played no part in this regardless of what you may think.' Sherlock didn't think he was going to get out of this bed for a long time coming, he had done the damage and now he had to face the results of that without burying his head in the sand again or blanketing them with drugs.

Mycroft lifted his head from his hands looking world weary and exhausted. 'You need to let me in again Sherlock, work with me this time.' Mycroft steadied his tired blue eyes on him. 'Don't make me force this treatment on you anymore; you need to stop running before it's too late.'

Sherlock sighed and choked on his breath over a rapid row of skipped heart beats, coughing heavily around painful muscles until his older brother came to the rescue and pressed an oxygen mask over his mouth and helped him to time his laboured breaths. After he had gotten his breath back and sank against his pillows Sherlock looked away from Mycroft and spoke quietly; 'I don't have a choice now Mycroft, the doctor was just trying to be optimistic.'

'How do you figure that?' Mycroft asked, voice confused.

'In a few years he said I'd be on the transplant list, but even I know nobody will look twice at my name after they see my history, no matter how much I try and prove I am '_recovered'_' He let his head loll towards his brother again, breath fogging the mask. 'A runaway, underage prostitute with four suicide attempts and numerous overdoses and history of destructive and self-harm behaviours. Not even you will be able to convince a medical team to accept my name on the list.'

'Ah little brother, you have so little faith in me.' Mycroft shook his head. 'I have connections with the head of the transplant team at the Royal London, we are in the middle of working out a contract for your acceptance to the transplant list as we speak on the grounds that when the time comes you will be rehabilitated, clean from drugs and at a minimum BMI and doing something with your life.' Mycroft stood up and began to fuss with the blankets around Sherlock's thin frame as his eyes narrowed at him in disbelief. If one thing Mycroft had taught him growing up had stuck with him, it was that sentiment was a dangerous weakness and yet here was his older brother showing the one thing he so thoroughly despised.

After a moment Sherlock spoke; 'why would you do this for me? You've never had this much faith in me before, who is to say as soon as I am released from care I won't just go straight back to my old life?' He didn't think that he would, but he needed to work out how sincere his brother was in this promise of a chance at life continuing for Sherlock. He was weary of the reality of this going ahead.

Sitting back down and making a show of arranging himself, deliberately stalling Sherlock Mycroft leaned back and tilted his head. 'Because now you seem to have a reason to live outside of your own head, I don't believe you would fancy the idea of breaking the news to John Watson that you will be dead within the years end and that everything the two of you have built these past months has been all for nothing.'

'I didn't think you would approve of us.' Sherlock mumbled, cheeks reddening. He hadn't expected his brother to approach that territory. Mycroft just gave anther mighty sigh again and rolled his eyes.

'Why brother would I have a problem with you showing the first signs of love and emotion for the first time in your life? I am ecstatic as I am sure will be our parents when they find out and meet the charming young man himself. He may be rather homely and very average and stupid compared to you or I, but he seems to do alright.' Sherlock scowled when Mycroft called John stupid but didn't say anything. Secretly he was pleased with Mycroft's approval though he would rather die than admit that out loud to anyone.

Shuffling deeper in to his pillows to try and take some of the pressure off sore back muscles and ribs, Sherlock turned to his brother with his brows raised. 'What have you told our parents?'

'They don't know anything at all right now, I had held off on informing them of placing you in treatment under the proviso that you wouldn't hang around for long enough to bother involving them. But I was going to inform them by the weeks end if you continued to show signs of declining and not waking up, I would have spun a convincing enough story to break it to them as easily as I could, but you know mummy. Either way she will not take this well.'

Sherlock snorted painfully, wincing at the pain in his chest.

'You will not be going back to the unit once you are medically cleared to leave the hospital, I have arranged for you to continue your convalescence at my townhouse with a nurse and an emergency doctor on call.' Mycroft held up a hand to silence him as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. 'I have arranged with Greg private consultations and special allowed leave for the continuation of John Watson's treatment for two hours in the evening after supper on the conditions you complete all meals and medications for the day.' Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically but it could honestly be a lot worse.

'I don't understand why you are all so obsessed with fattening me up.' He sniped instead. 'And how am I supposed to keep myself amused while locked away indefinitely in your townhouse?' That was going to be the biggest issue, keeping his brain and mind amused while he gained back his health and energy. If he didn't have something to garner his attention on then he was going to be climbing the walls in defiance and doing what he could to cause any trouble at all or distract him.

'You will be resuming your studies and preparing for your college entrance exam, I believe at one point you and I discussed your interest in chemistry? I have arranged a special admission exam with the Dean when you are well enough.'

'Oh god, this is going to be pure torture I can tell already.' Sherlock slumped back against the pillows dramatically, a small smile shared between the brothers.


End file.
